The Magic of Deduction
by TheShoelessOne
Summary: John Watson spends seven years at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where he meets the boy who will become the greatest man he'll ever know. Eventual John/Sherlock.
1. Year One

**.year one.**

John Watson is looking right at his Third Year big sister Harriet, smiling too wide for her face and watching expectantly from the Gryffindor table with her group of red-and-gold friends, when he is sorted into Hufflepuff.

The table of yellow and black gives a loud round of applause, but John doesn't move from the stool. Rooted to the spot, watching the smile drop straight off his big sister's face. He doesn't move until the Headmistress shoos him politely in the direction of the beaming faces at the Hufflepuff table. He doesn't look at his sister when his wobbling knees drop him into a seat next to a round-faced boy. The round-faced boy has a knowing smile, claps him once kindly on the shoulder.

"All right, mate," the round-faced boy says in the nicest way possible. "I didn't think I'd be wearing yellow either."

John turns concerned eyes to him, the feel of his sister's eyes burning symmetrical holes in his neck. "Is it awful?"

"No, it's fantastic!" The boy grins. "Michael Stamford. You can call me Mike, if you like."

John slowly, sadly swallows his hopes and dreams and pride. "John Watson."

When dinner starts, John expects Harriet to come to his table and congratulate him. Or at least say something. When he throws a glance over his shoulder, she's laughing and talking with her friends as if he'd never existed. She washes down a laugh with pumpkin juice that she gets all over her tie. They think it's hilarious.

The Head Girl walks them to the common room. John's knees haven't stopped knocking since that hat _hadn't_ shouted out GRYFFINDOR! He doesn't know a single one of the faces that walk and chat alongside him (he'd sat with Harriet on the train, talked about how the stairs to the girl's dorms turned into a slide if a boy tried to go up them, about Andrew West, Quiddich captain, how fast he was going to scoop John up for Keeper or even Beater). He doesn't know a soul and he's in the wrong house and he's frankly both very angry and very upset about the whole thing.

"Perspicacity!" the head girl says when she comes to the enormous still life. The painting swings open to the warm common room, low ceilings and a wall-sized fireplace, all draped with yellow and adorned with plant-life. It hums with life, with warmth, with happy people and the smell of sweet rolls. John doesn't want it to feel right.

He's not listening when Mike shows him the boy's dorms, down the the left-hand perfectly-circular tunnel, when he picks up the yellow-and-black scarf and frowns at it. He's not listening when the other first-years file in, looking well at-ease and perfectly docile, tucking themselves into the poster beds with warm-honey hangings; when they turn the bedside lanterns out and only John's is burning. Solitary and sturdy. He gets to sleep somehow.

(He will definitely go to the Headmistress tomorrow, explain that he was meant to be in the same house as his sister, explain that he's not supposed to be a Hufflepuff but a Gryffindor and it's all a big mistake.)

He wakes up and something is different. The Something Different is in his chest, pressing all of his other organs out of place. But it's warm, like a little sun taken nest halfway down his throat. Maybe it's the covers pulled snug and cocoon-like around him. Maybe it's the sound of happy laughter echoing down the circular tunnels. Maybe it's because no one's left him alone.

Another First Year, even though he's fully dressed and looks half-ravenous, sits at the edge of his own bed and ties and re-ties his tie as he waits. When John sits slowly up, the boy's head bobs up from his neck and he smiles, and his front teeth are almost too large for his mouth.

"Morning," he says. "Sleep all right?"

John runs an unsure tongue over his lips in the silence. "I guess."

"I'm Carl. Carl Powers." He seems altogether too happy. "You're John Watson?" He nods to the name in blocky letters his mum had put on his trunk. John tried not to flush with pure embarrassment.

"Yeah, er..." He wonders how this possibly couldn't sound suspicious. "Why're you still here, Carl? Isn't everyone going to breakfast?"

"We Badgers 've got to stick together." The boy hops from his bed. His hair is the same color as the black on his tie, just like John's is nearly the same as the yellow on his.

Tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow he'll go to the Headmistress and tell her he's supposed to be a Gryffindor. He matches Carl's smile.

* * *

The first time John Watson meets Sherlock Holmes, it's a cold Tuesday in late September, three weeks after Sorting and three weeks wearing yellow-and-black. Mike looks up from his plate, something halfway between a smile and a frown creasing the sides of his mouth. John blinks and immediately turns to follow Mike's gaze.

It's a Slytherin boy, standing directly behind John and peering at him like he's the most interesting thing in the world. Bushy black curls frame bright, inquisitive, smart eyes that look just as silver as the snake on his crest. The boy smiles oddly, too tightly. Then his eyes flick over to John's lunch partner.

"Hello, Michael."

"Sherlock," Mike says. He clears his throat. "John, this is Sherlock Holmes. First Year, too. My dad knows his mum. Sherlock-"

"John Waston," Sherlock interrupts quickly. "I remember you from Sorting. Neither of us lived up to our siblings' expectations when it came to the houses we were sorted into, did we?"

John feels his throat go tight, especially when that boy smiles again. It could almost look cruel if he wanted it to. Before John can stop his mouth from flapping, the Slytherin continues.

"Your sister, she's a Gryffindor. There was no mistaking that look on her face. It looked a bit like the disappointment on my brother Mycroft's face at the Ravenclaw table. A prefect, looking to be Head Boy next year if he gets what he wants. Mycroft gets what he wants."

And suddenly the boy is sitting with them, on John's left and completely ignoring personal space.

"It's a long line of Ravenclaws I come from. All of them are in the Ministry. Or that's what they say when anyone asks them. Mummy's horrified. With so many Slytherins jailed after the Battle of Hogwarts, they don't have a good reputation. All villains are born in Slytherin."

He cocks his head like a cat, and John opens his mouth again to ask him to leave, but he keeps talking.

"And you're under the impression that all heroes come from Gryffindor. And that only Gryffindors are heroes." He purses his lips once in thought. "You want to be a hero, especially in your sister's eyes. For your father. He died fighting the Death Eaters, didn't he?"

John's whole jaw is wobbling against his will, and the Slytherin's eyes become a gray blur as John's eyes fill with angry tears. He hadn't cried in years, not since the funeral. Not since the hero's funeral that had been given for Harold Watson when he was barely old enough to remember anything but crying into his big sister's middle. His throat makes an awful noise, and he hates it, and he's moving before he can tell his legs to take him anywhere.

Mike calls after him once and rounds a heated glare on Sherlock, whose nonplussed surprise is written all over his slim face.

"Well done," Mike says, taking off after John before the boy got himself lost on the staircases.

He finds John leaning up against the banister of the main staircase, his shoulders shaking but no sound coming from the sturdy boy. It was perhaps the easiest he'd ever seen anyone take a dressing-down from Sherlock Holmes. He lets John sniffle for a few minutes more, keeping an eye out for any nosy onlookers. He gives a young Ravenclaw a pointed stare, and she dashes up the stairs immediately.

"He always does this," Mike hisses at last, not coming close for fear of interrupting something he oughtn't. John's shoulders stiffen. "Don't listen to him, okay? He does it to get a rise out of people."

He doesn't turn around. He hastily wipes his eyes and nose and stands up as straight as he can. When he turns, Mike can tell he's trying to look strong, a bit like a boy trying to fit in his father's boots. Sherlock is always right, Mike knows it. It doesn't mean he has to like it.

"You don't want to be a Hufflepuff?" It comes out, but John doesn't flinch, and Mike likes him more for it.

"I do. I mean, I didn't at first. I mean, no heroes ever came from Hufflepuff, did they?" He scratches the back of one leg with the toe of his shoe. "But I do. I like it here." He changes the subject, sniffling one last time and looking away when he does. "Who was that?"

"My family knows his," Mike replies. "No one really likes him."

"Can't imagine why," John says stiffly, and he finally smiles. It's sad and it's small, but it's a smile.

* * *

He's had double Charms with the Slytherins for three weeks, and it's only after the Holmes boy accosted him at lunch that John notices the black-curled boy staring at him from across the room. John frowns horribly, definitely not meeting his eye. He wonders if Professor Flitwick will notice an odd charm sent across to where the Slytherins are sitting. He wonders when they'll be learning hexes.

Carl leans in and asks John how the wand movement goes again, and he forgets about Sherlock Holmes.

Harriet (no, she's going by Harry now) finds him on the way to lunch and grabs him in the same rib-crushing embrace she's always given him. She says she's sorry, she was a right twat and she should be proud of him no matter what stinking house he's in. He grips feebly back at her, and he's happy.

She brings him back to the Gryffindor common room, introduces him to the Second and Third Years (Sally Donovan, a year older than him, is the newest Chaser on the Gryffindor team; she looks a bit like a hero). They treat him nice, they give him some biscuits, and after an hour he skips away back down to the warm kitchen corridor and the still life.

"Amity," John says plainly, and he's grinning ear-to-ear when he sees Mike and Carl waiting for him by the fire.

* * *

Gryffindor wins the House Cup at the end of the year, Ravenclaw coming in at a close second and Hufflepuff in third. There was a rumor going up and down the tables that two-hundred points had been deducted from Slytherin in one afternoon by the Holmes boy (someone said explosion in the Astronomy tower; someone else said he burnt through five cauldrons; another girl said he'd been caught stealing from Professor Slughorn's stores, and some really dangerous stuff had gone missing; even a few of the Hufflepuffs were saying that the boy had been in the restricted section of the library after hours, looking into some rather shady things). And another fifty following that when he refused detention for his actions.

John is content with third place. He'd like to share that cup with his sister, gloat about it when they got home, but he rather liked where he'd ended up. In looking over his shoulder at her, his eyes linger on the Slytherin table. They're all bunched up in the middle so that they can afford a wide space at the end, where a solitary, dark-curled figure huddles alone over his food.

* * *

AN: Hi, everyone! I don't really know what enticed me to write some Hogwarts!Sherlock (maybe it's all the quality art and fic for it, I dunno), but it's been put to paper! I plan on a chapter per year, this one's only rather short because there's so little interaction in their first year. Also, I hope no one hates me for making John a Badger. He embodies so much of both Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, and I wanted to write one where he doesn't exactly get what he wants (also I'm a Badger and it's a shameless ploy to get John all to myself). Thanks so much for reading, let me know if you liked and are interested in more, and as usual STAY AWESOME!


	2. Year Two

**.year two.**

John Watson narrowly avoids detention on his very first day back at Hogwarts. He isn't even off the train. He's been kindly asked to leave the compartment he'd been sharing with Harry (kicked out, more like; a Third Year Ravenclaw named Clara had poked her head in and Harry had practically put a boot in his arse), and peers into other compartments to see if he can find Carl or Mike. Or that pretty Gryffindor girl in Harry's year that Harry never talks to (because she's too pretty, Harry says with a crinkling frown), Sarah.

What he finds is a fight.

Someone falls backwards out of the compartment in front of him, tumbles to the floor and hits the wall just in time for another student to come flying out on top of him, fists balled and throwing punches at the prostrate figure. The third is cheering his fellow on from the doorway. It's a tangle of Slytherins, and the corridor is immediately abuzz with shouting.

"Hey!" John calls, rolling up his sleeves and craning his neck backward to the heads suddenly peering out into the hallway. "Someone get a prefect!"

And John's in the fray without thinking, grabbing the topmost boy by the robes and heaving him off. The Slytherin struggles, swinging his fists in attempts to get at John as well. John gets his feet dug into the carpet and shoves the Slytherin in his hands hard up against the nearest window to placate him (the boy looks like a Second Year, but he's scrawnier than John, who's been working all summer and gotten quite sturdy). The one in the door is about ready to push off and help his friend when the called-for prefect finally arrives (a Gryffindor, one John hasn't met).

"Ten points from Slytherin for each of you," the prefect growls once she's got the two brawlers by the collar. "And ten from Hufflepuff, I'll be talking to your Heads of House—"

"He broke it up, he wasn't fighting," squeaks a First Year, suddenly right beside John. He must have come from the neighboring compartment, for how quickly he's shown up. "I saw everything."

The prefect frowns a bit, and finally nods. "All right. I'll still be talking to Professor Slughorn about detentions for you two..." And they're carted away down the corridor, leaving the knot of spectators spilling out into the hall.

John kneels down to help the abused party off the floor, but he knows who it is before he's even to the ground. There's no mistaking that mop of dark hair. Sherlock Holmes helps himself to his elbow, wiping away the blood leaking from his nose onto his top lip with a half-haughty, half-embarrassed sniff.

"Oh," John says, an old coal of dislike stirred back to heat somewhere between his lungs. "Er. All right?"

Sherlock nods, not looking up at any of the eyes peering down at him. He helps himself up, ignoring the hand John offers him, disappearing back into his compartment.

John sighs harshly through his nose, crosses his arms and tries to shake off the post-adrenaline jitters. The First Year is still standing at his elbow, wide-eyed and waiting.

"Hey, thanks..." John pauses for a name.

The boy bobs with excess energy and offers, "Jimmy."

When they get to Sorting, the helpful First Year, James Moriarty, goes to Slytherin with a bashful little smile.

* * *

"You're not gonna try out?" John asks as he and Carl take the long walk to the Quidditch pitch.

"There's only two positions open," Carl dodges the question efficiently. "I'm too scrawny for a Beater, and I don't think I'd be a great Chaser. Maybe when Seeker opens up."

"Yeah. You are awful scrawny." John grins. He's had to borrow a broom from Mike, whose family got him a rather nice, if not a bit outdated, Nimbus 2000 that he never uses (he'd thought about trying for Keeper last year, but never got around to it).

John had practiced all summer. Or, at least, it felt like all summer. When he wasn't working for his uncle at St. Mungo's (nothing special, mostly lifting things and putting them somewhere else), he was at Mike's on the broom, swatting at bludgers. He'd only fallen off the broom once, and that was when Mike's big brother had hit him point-blank with a redirected bludger, and it was only five feet.

He'd met the Hufflepuff team captain before, but Greg Lestrade was a busy boy and little time for fraternizing. Now that he's a Fifth Year, he's been made prefect as well, and the stress is beginning to show in his face. But he smiles when John and Carl show on the pitch. There aren't many of them there, and John wonders whether it's because of the limited positions available or the quality of the team, or even general disinterest. It's true that the Quidditch Cup doesn't often find its way into Hufflepuff hands (something he hopes to help reverse), but he doesn't see that as a reason to give up any sense of hope.

If anything, it makes John more determined to prove that the Badgers are something to contend with.

"All right, you lot," Lestrade says once it seems as though all the hopefuls have shown (six for Chaser, three for Beater; the only Second Years are John and a girl named Soo Lin Yao, who has never spoken a word to him). "Chasers first. Up in the air, all of you."

As he waits, watching the hopefuls pass the quaffle expertly through the air, John peers up into the stands at the handful of spectators who have come out to watch the tryouts. It's hard to tell faces from the field, but the colors are present enough: mostly yellow, a smattering of blue, one spot of red (Harry?).

One of the spectators in the blue scarf rises and leaves the stands halfway through the Chaser trials, and even before John has a chance to wonder who it was or where they've gone, someone is standing behind him. John doesn't jump, but he's definitely surprised. John pales; it's the Head Boy, Mycroft Holmes.

He looks down his nose at John for a long moment before a long, condescending smile curls over his face. "Mary Morstan told me that you're the boy that broke up the unfortunate altercation on the Hogwarts Express the first day back." Mary Morstan, that must have been the Gryffindor prefect from the train. "I regret that I haven't spoken to you earlier, but the days of a Head Boy tend to be... cluttered."

John doesn't say anything, and high over their heads, Lestrade blows the whistle.

"As you must know by now, the boy who was the target of that attack is my younger brother, Sherlock. I would like to offer my personal thanks for your getting involved."

John shakes his head, and he doesn't know why. "I... It was nothing. I didn't even know it was him." _Or I might've turned around and let them._ He doesn't like that he thinks it, and it's gone in the same instant. Of course he would've stopped the fight, regardless of who it was throwing and taking punches.

It's almost like Mycroft sees the unsaid words hanging over John's head, because he gives a pinched, knowing smile. "I understand, John. He's certainly earned his fair share of retaliation. He may even have deserved it."

And suddenly, without John's noticing, another figure wrapped in a blue scarf has appeared behind the Head Boy. She's holding a small book close enough to hide the lower half of her face and doesn't even look up when she speaks to him.

"Sir?"

"Yes, about that time," Mycroft replies. "Good luck, John. And my thanks, again. I do worry about him." The last seems to be for Mycroft himself, as he's already turned away to join the Ravenclaw girl behind him. They walk away, not quite arm-in-arm, but giving off the impression of being so.

And then, Lestrade calls for the Beaters, and John has plenty of time to forget about the strange meeting.

He gets a standing ovation from the small crowd (yes, he definitely hears Harry shouting over the din) when he knocks Lestrade off his broom with a powerful knock from the bludger. Practically floating back to the castle on the adrenaline, John barely hears Carl praise his flying; the boy is absolutely sure that John's a shoe-in.

* * *

The group of Hufflepuffs rushes down the stairs in a whirlwind of feet, all of them chattering at once and spurring John and Soo Lin ahead of them like riders on a wave. They tumble all together in one mass through the portrait hole once someone has managed to shout the password ("_Puffapod!_") and Mike nearly has John in a headlock as they're all wrangled to the notice board.

Quidditch results. John nearly faints.

_John Watson, Beater  
Soo Lin Yao, Chaser _

There's a loud whoop somewhere behind them, and the pretty Chinese girl who's never spoken to him throws her arms around him in celebration. Someone breaks out a tin of fudge from Hogsmeade, and a party popper goes off over their heads.

"I expect good things from you, Watson," Lestrade tells him, his mouth half-full of crumbs. "You got a bloody good arm, but you could stand to maneuver a bit quicker. We'll get you sorted out soon as we can. That girl there with Stamford," Lestrade waves his arm to a girl in Mike's year, covered in freckles, "is your other Beater, Violet Hunter. Good girl, hell of a wallop." For the first time that John's seen, Lestrade breaks his stoicism gives a manic grin. "I got a good feeling about this year, Watson."

John can only nod enthusiastically, cut off as he's seized by someone and passed through the crowd in the common room to be patted repeatedly on the back.

Someone calls out "Quidditch Cup, here we come!" and there's a swell of noise. And even when the lights go out and the cheers have faded into the walls, and everyone has curled up in bed, John's singing nerves still won't let him sleep.

* * *

"Look at that," Violet says with her mouth full at breakfast a week later. She's already got her bracers on, dressing for practice while she eats. John turns in the direction she's waved her spoon, and he immediately recognizes the figure stalking through the Great Hall. "Someone's got a new pet."

Sherlock Holmes strides purposefully for the door, a little First Year Ravenclaw following doggedly at his heels and staring up at him with enormous puppy-eyes.

"Who's that?" Soo Lin asks, and John's not sure if she means the boy or his stalker. He opens his mouth to answer the former, but Violet cuts back in.

"Molly Hooper. Her father's the Healer-in-Charge of Magical Bugs at St. Mungo's." She quints at the walking pair, and then her eyes go unbelievably wide. "He's got her carrying all his books!"

John frowns slightly as the two leave the corner of his eye, distracted as the post comes flying in. He scoops his toast away just in time for the family's ruffled old barn owl to flutter to a stop in front of him.

"Easy, Toby," John says as he smooths the owl's feathers. He offers a bit of his sausage as he off-handedly opens the letter. Toby gives a thankful clack of his beak before he's back off.

_Tea in classroom eleven directly after practice._ _Do please accept the invitation, I would hate to order you.  
Mycroft Holmes_

"Oh," John says, not sure of the appropriate reaction. How had Mycroft gotten ahold of the family owl (perhaps it's best he never knows)? He doesn't show the note to anyone else, and after a particularly rainy practice, he makes the first excuse that comes to mind ("Got to check with Professor Sprout about that essay") to slip away.

The Ravenclaw girl he remembers seeing with Mycroft is already waiting outside the classroom door for him, her nose pressed into a different book but still allowing him no attention. Before his feet even pause, she opens the door with her free hand and gestures him inside.

The normally-empty classroom has been supplemented with a small round table and a set of chairs that wouldn't have been out of place at a Parisian cafe (John's never been to Paris, but he can make an educated guess). Mycroft Holmes stands by the table, leaning on his umbrella with a patient smile. He waves his hand at the table before him.

"Sit down, please."

John sidles over to the table and takes his seat, and the Ravenclaw girl has let go of her book long enough to pour two cups of hot tea.

"I understand you never received any house points for stopping young Mister Anderson from bludgeoning my brother on the train, Mister Watson," Mycroft says as he takes the seat opposite. John looks to where the girl was, only to find her gone without any sound of her retreat. "I think ten points to Hufflepuff should do?"

John peers into the fine white china cup as if he's not sure what to do with it, and finally takes a large gulp. It spreads a glorious warmth up and down his his throat and even radiating outward to his fingers. It's the most absolutely wonderful drink he's ever had.

"Thank you." The tea makes John's ten points seem like one hundred. "But..." He can feel Mycroft's sharp eyes narrow on him, though the stationary smile remains in place. "But you wouldn't need an empty classroom and tea to give me some extra points. You could've done that before practice."

The Head Boy shrugs, not surprised at being found out. "If I may ask a question of you, John," Mycroft begins into the silence, holding his teacup but not bringing it any closer to his lips.

John holds his cup with both hands, just under his lip to smell it and take another sip. He nods, though he's sure no one refuses Mycroft Holmes.

"As you know, this is my last year at Hogwarts. Not the ideal position for an older brother with a charge like mine. I don't dare to imagine what he'll get up to without my influence to look after him. I would feel so much more at ease if someone were to..." He swirls his teacup like a wineglass, peering into space thoughtfully, "keep an eye on him."

John's not sure, but it sounds very much like Mycroft is asking him to spy on Sherlock Holmes. He feels as though the word _SPY_ is written ten feet high above his head, flashing red and buzzing. He doesn't like it, not in the least, because he knows the feeling too well.

"I don't know." He hides his face in his tea.

"You're very loyal for someone who doesn't know Sherlock as well as I do."

_That's the point of a Hufflepuff._ "I'm not... I mean, spying is no good for anyone."

(All the lights are out, like they should be, except the one in the kitchen. John sneaks because he's not supposed to be awake. Won't hurt to look. Harry, her face red and twisted into something awful, nearly drops the bottle in her hand and throws all the fruit in the bowl at him until he retreats, curls up under his bed and hides.)

"As Head Boy, I can give house points to whomever I think deserves them," Mycroft says after a brief silence. "What place _is_ Hufflepuff in?"

And John had been set against the idea before, but now that the stink of bribery had been set firmly into the air, something inside the boy tightens and stands tall, and he digs in firmly.

"No." He swallows his nervousness and stands from the chair. "Not for three hundred points. I don't care who you'd have me spy on, but I won't be doing any of it."

Mycroft's frown flickers away for a moment, and it's almost terrifying. But John doesn't move. The emotionless smile is back just as quickly. "Of course, I won't force you into anything, John. I was merely asking. Would you like to finish your tea?"

"I'd like to get back to the common room now." John doesn't stumble over his words, and he wonders briefly just how he's done it when he feels so ill-at-ease.

"No one's stopping you." And Mycroft smiles in full, the tips of his teeth showing. He doesn't stand. "Have a good evening, John. And if you should change your mind, you know how to reach me."

* * *

There are only a handful of students in the Great Hall when _it_ happens.

It's the third of April, just before class starts again after lunch. John is the closest. At first, she doesn't even make a noise, just sort of bends at the waist and holds her hands to her middle with a pained expression pulled over her face.

Her name is Jennifer Wilson, First Year Ravenclaw. She's been poisoned.

John is the first one to his feet when Jennifer Wilson gives a loud shriek. The knot of First Year Ravenclaws around her shuffle backwards, clutching one another and staring helplessly as the girl first hits her knees, and then the floor.

Another head appears, a head crowned by dark curls.

John parts the First Years and skids down to the floor beside Jennifer Wilson, whose arms are barred tight over her middle as she kicks and writhes and bawls. His hands hover over her, and he should be scared because he doesn't know what to do. But he's not.

"What's her name?" he shoots quickly over his shoulder at Molly Hooper, who jumps. She has tears in her eyes.

"Jennie," she squeaks. "Is she—?"

"Jennie, it's all right," John insists, his hands still not touching her. "Jennie? Can you hear me?"

"It _hurts_!" she manages to squeeze between her teeth.

"Abdominal cramps," says the voice that descends to kneel beside John. He chances only the glance of a second to confirm: Sherlock Holmes. "What else?" John's mouth opens, and when he can't answer, Sherlock rounds harshly on the Ravenclaws behind them and snaps, "_What else?_"

"She's—" Molly squeaks again. "She's been sweating a lot. A bad headache since breakfast, and... and..." She pushes through frustrated tears for the word. "Nausea."

Sherlock's eyes are back on Jennifer Wilson, who's started to shake. Focus so intense, with such amazing speed of thought behind them. John's brain should be shouting panic, throwing alarms. But it doesn't. "Someone get Madame Pomfrey."

"No time," Sherlock says quickly. "I'll have her feet, and hurry. Professor Cairns's fireplace is connected to the Floo Network, it's closest."

"Floo Network? Why would we need...?" John is already complying, heading for the girl's head and lifting her gently under the arms when Sherlock does from her feet.

"She's been poisoned," Sherlock says as if it's the most obviously thing that's ever left his lips.

The Ravenclaws give a short, horrified groan as the two boys and their charge leave them behind. "Poisoned? We should be getting Professor Slughorn, and get her up to the Hospital Wing—"

"No use," Sherlock bites. "I doubt Professor Slughorn knows a thing about pesticides."

The girl in their arms shakes, moans.

Sherlock leads the way, practically running through bunched groups of students who turn and stare; John stutters apologies through the sheer audacity (and at his own—sneaking into the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher's office, what was he _doing?_). Fortunately, Professor Cairnes herself is there to explain the whole thing to.

They don't end up sending the poor girl through the Floo Network. Once her dire straits have been clearly established (precious moments wasted as they wait for Slughorn to arrive, Sherlock clearly agitated at the lack of action on the adults' parts), and even further that it was some sort of Muggle poison that no one in the room knew how to make heads or tails of, she's sent off in the surprisingly strong arms of Madame Pomfrey to a safe disapparation point.

John finds himself in the Headmistress's office for the very first time, huddled next to the fire with Sherlock Holmes as they wait for instruction, for the teachers to tell them whether what they've done was right or wrong. Someone keeps throwing afghans over their shoulders, and each time, Sherlock rips it away, giving it a puzzling look before tossing it behind him.

"How'd you know?" John asks at last, hardly more than a whisper. A few of the men in the nearest portraits lean in closer. John is on his second cup of tea; Sherlock's has gone stone cold. The dark-haired boy hardly looks up from the fire. "About the poison, I mean."

Sherlock shrugs. "It was obvious."

And that's all he'll ever get.

McGonagall finally returns from whatever meeting they've been having about the whole incident, looking shaken and strangely aged. Her hands descend onto the boys' shoulders and she offers them both a warm smile of encouragement.

"She'll be all right." A long, shaken sigh escapes from her, and she seems to relax now that the words have been said. "She may not be back for some time, but, thanks to you boys—"

"Who did it?" Sherlock insists, his pale face unreadable.

McGonagall blinks behind her spectacles. "I'm sorry, Mister Holmes?"

"The pesticide was put in her drink," Sherlock says. "Most likely at breakfast, if not at dinner the night before. No one else is showing symptoms, so she was a target. So, it was deliberate. _So_, who did it?"

She grips Sherlock's shoulder even tighter. "I assure you, we're doing all we can to find out what happened to Jennifer Wilson, and whoever might have..." The Headmistress barely suppresses a shudder. "Fifty points to both of your houses." She leaves it at that, ushering the boys from the office and excusing them from class for the rest of the day.

"Wow," John breathes once they reach the bottom of the stairs. "That was... incredible."

Sherlock sighs harshly through his nose. "Not enough data." And he's gone in a whirl of robe and scarf.

* * *

Hufflepuff doesn't win the Quidditch Cup. Slytherin's tight offense tore through any defenses John and Violet were able to throw their way, and they lost something awful. No one blamed anyone else, and they had thrown themselves a rather spectacular pity party the night after the game. It's no surprise, then, that the House Cup isn't theirs to lay claim to, either.

No one says so, but it's thanks to John's extra points in the Jennifer Wilson affair that they're not last. They manage to pull ahead of Ravenclaw only just (most of the table is just ecstatic to have Jennie back, hardly any eyes are on the amount of sapphires in the hourglass). John goes a very interesting shade of red when McGonagall mentions his and Sherlock's names in the end-of-year speech, and there's a loud burst of applause from the Ravenclaw table (with a smattering from the others joining in).

Clara is sitting with Harry when John climbs onto the train, their hands stitched together and talking with their heads ducked close into one another. John doesn't even knock.

He considers for a moment joining Soo Lin and Violet in their compartment, but he passes by and picks the compartment occupied by a single boy with dark hair. His head snaps up when John enters, and he looks frankly surprised that anyone has acknowledged him at all.

"That was a brilliant thing you did," John says, flopping down into the seat across from Sherlock

"Which one?" Sherlock replies blandly, badly trying to play off his surprise with malaise.

The conceit of the statement blows John for a moment, but he's back quickly. "With the poison, and Jennifer Wilson. She could've died."

Sherlock looks at his feet. "It's all useless if I can't find who did it."

It's obvious that he's used to that word, _brilliant_, it's lost it's lustre. So John shifts and the movement catches Sherlock's eye back upward. "Y'know, it's like you said. Not all heroes are Gryffindors."

It's the first real smile John has ever seen on Sherlock's face.  


* * *

AN: Hi again! This one is EXPONENTIALLY longer than the last, and I have a feeling the years will be getting longer and longer. But I think sticking with the "one year, one chapter" format will work out best. I can't believe how much fun I'm having writing this. Many thanks to my wonderful beta Lady Dan and helping me fix the second Mycroft scene. Oh, and Violet Hunter is the name of the woman who hires Holmes and Watson in "The Copper Beeches", and is rumored by some to be Watson's second wife. Holmes nerd, I know. Anyhow, I hope you all enjoyed this as much as I LOVED writing it, leave us some love, and don't forget to STAY AWESOME!


	3. Year Three

**.year three.**

The train hisses steam along the platform, and John Watson sees Sherlock Holmes with his hands in his pockets as the steam swirls all around his long, dark robes. He's gotten taller, _much_ taller, and the rest of him hasn't quite caught up. One of the porters is hauling Sherlock's trunk up onto the luggage car, and Sherlock's pinched face barks orders at them periodically. A yellow tabby cat winds around the boy's ankles, and the creature is the first one to notice the two new figures walking up the platform.

Sherlock turns his head at last. "John." His voice is deeper, too. He doesn't waste time with small talk, shifting his eyes to the Fifth Year standing beside John. "And Harriet. This _is_ your sister, isn't it?"

The Gryffindor frowns. John sees it and cuts in quickly.

"Sherlock, my sister Harry. Harry, this is Sherlock Holmes. Y'know, the..." They don't talk about the day Jennifer Wilson was poisoned, the day a girl nearly died.

"I heard about Sherlock Holmes," Harry says, eyeing the boy up and down (he's two years younger than her, and he's already gained an inch on her). "I heard he's a weirdo. That he knows stuff about you before you even meet him." Oh, John knows all about that, and he knows the idea Harry is having, and he knows it's a bad one. But no one stops Harry Watson. "So, go on then."

Sherlock narrows his eyes, which flick briefly down to the long-suffering look on John's face, before he smiles smugly at Harry.

"Your name is Harriet, but you go by Harry because you want to appear stronger and less feminine than your name suggests. Maybe because of the loss of a strong masculine figure in your life, more likely because you're more interested in kissing girls than kissing boys. The most recent is a Ravenclaw—"

He stops when Harry gives an angry step closer and raises her fist threateningly. She spits, "Cut that out, you _freak_!"

And before Sherlock can take a defensive step backward, John is in the space between them, eye to eye with his sister and deflecting the fist that wants to turn Sherlock's face inside-out.

"Don't you dare," John warns her. "Sherlock's my friend, and you'd better stop talking about him like that _right now_. And I better not hear about you saying anything behind his back, either. Harriet."

She gives a harsh breath through her nose, which wrinkles with dislike when she looks back up at the Slytherin boy. Then, dropping her fist, she twirls on the spot and leaves them behind on the platform. John sighs, scrubbing his hair with both of his hands, and turns to apologize.

Sherlock is giving him the strangest look he's ever seen. He doesn't even know what to call it. Shock? Wonder? Horror? It makes Sherlock's eyes look very bright, whatever it is, and very small.

John blinks too much, trying to understand it, and finally frowns under the scrutiny. "What?"

Sherlock shakes his head and looks away. "Nothing, it's... I've never had a—" He clears his throat. "I don't have friends."

John's frown deepens, and there's a cold spot that's growing in the middle of his chest. His face hurts, and he realizes it's because he's using too much of it, pinching up in growing disappointment. _I don't have friends_. So, clearly, John can't have been Sherlock Holmes's friend, if he didn't have any. It's certainly a disappointment.

He nods stiffly, accepting Sherlock's choice in the matter, and walks away very quickly. He thinks, for a moment, he hears something move behind him, but he doesn't stop until he's on the train and he's found an empty compartment to hide himself in. Silly John Watson, trying too hard to make friends; served him right, he supposes.

There's a light knock on the compartment door, and his head jerks up (the cold spot vanishes for a moment), but it's not who he'd expected. It's Sarah Sawyer, the Gryffindor in Harry's year who he still hasn't quite gotten up the nerves to talk to. She's wearing a shiny prefect badge on her jumper, and a pretty smile.

"Hello," she says, brushing the long, hanging hair from her eyes. "Do you mind?

"I, uh—no, I don't mind at all."

She shuts the door behind her, grinning as though she's been let in on a secret. "Until they come and fetch me, that is. New prefect, kind of exciting." She takes a seat opposite him. "You're Johnny Watson, aren't you? Harry's brother?"

He can feel his ears betraying him to go a horrible red color. Was she calling him _Johnny_ behind his back? Oh, he was upset with her before, but now he's on his way to livid.

"John's fine."

"I'm Sarah." He stupidly can't find anything to say to that, so he smiles a big, awkward, open-mouthed smile. "I heard about everything you did to help that girl last year. You and your friend, you were quite the heroes."

John doesn't tell her that Sherlock's made it clear he doesn't have any friends, that he doesn't really think he's much of a hero, and he doesn't say that he thinks she's very pretty. Partially because he feels rather dumbfounded in her presence, but mostly because half of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team bursts into his compartment and bring a whole lot of noise with them. Sarah excuses herself when they come to collect her to sit with the other prefects, and John can't help but think that he's missed out on an opportunity.

After the First Years have been Sorted, after stuffing himself with food and reconnecting with Mike and Carl, John gets up to head to the common room and get some well-deserved sleep. He nearly walks into Sherlock Holmes, and they both stand awkwardly still in the middle of the Great Hall. A handful of eyes are staring, and someone nudges someone else at the Slytherin table, but for the most part, the world remains the same.

Sherlock frowns as he gathers words in his head, and he finally blurts out: "I didn't mean _you_, idiot."

John should probably feel offended (most people would have). But he doesn't. Understanding slowly blooms over John's face, and he smiles broadly. He holds out his hand (someone whispers at the Slytherin table, and more of them are looking now, but it's fine). Sherlock sees this as acceptable, and they shake.

* * *

Violet grabs hold of John's wrist as she runs by him, pulling him along faster than he's already trotting. They aren't running late per say, but Lestrade hates tardiness almost as much as he hates laziness, so they choose not to chance it even by a minute. It's the end of November, their first match of the year, up against Ravenclaw—who they'd barely managed a victory over last year, and now that Carl's the Seeker and he doesn't have a game under his belt, John's not _worried_ (okay, yes he is)—and it's looking to be a nasty day. The rain isn't letting up, and it won't be the first or last game played in a storm.

Passing under the seats and heading hastily for the pitch, they rush by a figure who makes an odd strangled noise in his throat as John goes by. The voice tries again and this time it's: "John!"

John skids to a halt, nearly yanking Violet off her feet at momentum lost. He blinks several times to be sure he's seeing it right, because it _looks_ like Sherlock Holmes is standing there with a big yellow pin on his robe (which, with a second glance, morphs from plain yellow to a large badger's head), fidgeting and looking severely out of place.

"Sherlock?" Surely it was his mind playing tricks with him.

"Yes. John. Hello." His face attempts something not unlike a smile.

"John," Violet hisses, tugging at his wrist.

John grimaces at the sudden choice, and he rounds on Violet. "There in a bit, just give me a moment."

"Ooh, Lestrade's not gonna like this," Violet warns, giving Sherlock a pleading look before she turns and keeps running without him.

With their audience gone, Sherlock drops his hands and gives a very frustrated sigh. "You don't have to be brilliant to tell I've never been to one of these things, do you?"

John laughs, half of his face curling up in a chiding smile. "Never been to Quidditch? What do you _do_ all the time?"

Sherlock gives him a look that says _we don't have the time to go into all of that_.

"So why'd you show up to this one?" John asks, not allowing the silence too long to take hold.

The Slytherin narrows his eyes. "Because you're playing." Obviously.

"I've played before. A whole year of it."

"Yes, but." He checks surreptitiously for any prying ears, at which John gives another half-stifled laugh. "But you're my... _friend_ now. I supposed that it was common to show support for your companion's pursuits. Even if—" John hears _I don't know how_ hang in the air, and he's sure he will never hear Sherlock say those words aloud.

John's eye lingers on the pin at Sherlock's chest (he's not seen it before, he must have enchanted it himself), and when he looks up he's grinning determinedly. "Okay, follow me."

He runs up the stairs to the Hufflepuff spectators section, Sherlock in tow, until he finds Mike halfway up. He looks more than surprised to see the both of them, especially John.

"Mike, this is important," John says, and Sherlock is looking fervently at the stairs. "Sherlock's a Badger today, all right? Tell everyone he's my friend, and they'd better be nice."

Mike's eyes are on the pin, and then he nods. And he smiles. John can't remember Mike giving Sherlock a genuine smile in all the times he's seen them together.

"All right, mate, but you'd better win this one."

John practically bounces in place, the excitement of the impending match pounding harder and harder in his temples and his sudden and unexplainable elation filling up the space between his lungs. He claps Sherlock on the shoulder and rushes off down the stairs. He doesn't hear Sherlock tell him _good luck_ because he doesn't say it. But he thinks it. Very hard.

Lestrade has several new frown lines when John finally shows, and he gives John the briefest lecture in Quidditch captain history ("Don't do it again, Watson, or I'll... think of something awful to do later.") when they walk out onto the pitch to waves and waves of glorious cheering.

He can't see any faces from the ground, but he grins up at the section of solid black and yellow (interrupted only by one speck of green) and waves his arm and bat high in the air. When they kick off, and there's a rush of glorious air in his ears that mixes with the sound of the crowd, he buzzes the Hufflepuff section just once before he clobbers a bludger in the direction of Ravenclaw's center Chaser.

Ravenclaw's offense is good, they're _really_ good. But Hufflepuff has an unmatchable defense, and after four Hufflepuff goals and one for Ravenclaw, Carl Powers shows everyone what kind of Seeker he's going to be and scoops up the Snitch.

Hufflepuffs swarm the pitch and Carl is borne aloft by several of the older ones (he really is very scrawny). John can see that Sherlock thinks he's getting away scot free on the edge of the crowd, thinks he'll be able to slip away just as easily as he snuck in, but John won't let him.

"You're a Badger tonight," John tells him, gripping his upper arm so he can't bolt. "Honorary trial membership. Come on."

Sherlock looks unsure, looking at all the beaming faces around him, cheering and hardly even noticing the Slytherin in amongst them (they all notice, it's impossible for them _not_ to notice, but they do what Hufflepuffs do best and they accept him).

"Where are we going?"

"Common room. A win's no good without a bit of a party after."

It's loud and it's close in the Hufflepuff common room, a stark contrast to the quiet coldness of the Slytherin dungeon; it's pressing and warm and people are offering him biscuits. No one is staring at him, asking him what he's doing here, belittling him. It's baffling. Sherlock has never been unconditionally accepted (and, granted, no one is outright friendly to him, but it's a pervading sense of communal camaraderie that he's most certainly not used to), and he's not sure what to do with the data.

John presses a fizzy drink into his hand. "You look a bit lost."

"It's... not really my area."

"Listen," John begins, snapping a bit of toffee off between his teeth. "Thank you. For coming out, I mean. You're not the sporting type—" Sherlock laughs a bit harshly. "—but it was nice of you to come anyway."

"I don't know much about the sport," Sherlock says, testing the drink and not finding it appalling, "but you appeared to do your part well. And you won. So, congratulations."

John snickers and shuffles his feet, peers past Sherlock to be sure that no one was pointing odd fingers at him, and continues: "Next weekend there's a Hogsmeade trip, and I was gonna make my way out."

"So?" Sherlock asks.

"So come with me," John prompts, beginning to get the hang of speaking to Sherlock Holmes.

A blank slate stares back at him, absolutely unreadable. Sherlock finishes his drink and gives the slightest shake of his head. "No, I couldn't possibly. So many other things to do. Essays, experiments, reading—"

"Yeah, all right," John cuts in, "I get the point."

But the next morning at breakfast, an unfamiliar owl swoops down in front of John, leaves its message and flies off as quickly as it came.

_Changed my mind.  
SH_

John catches the Slytherin boy's eyes from across the Hall and he grins at him.

* * *

"Sherlock," John whispers across the table.

"Hm," Sherlock hardly intones, either extremely disinterested in whatever John's question might be or extremely engrossed in the heavy book laid out in front of him.

John waits until a young witch with a book trolley has gone past before leaning in slightly to lower his voice. "Sherlock, what sort of hex would work on a troll?"

"Don't be an idiot, John," Sherlock says barely above his breath as casually as if he'd asked John to pass a quill. The insult from anyone else might have been devastating, but from Sherlock it's somehow almost a compliment. "Don't tell me you're cheating on your Defense Against the Dark Arts essay."

"Not... Not cheating, no," John replies with a pout. "I just thought, y'know, magic's no good against trolls because their hide's so tough, right?"

"Very good, John," Sherlock says without really hearing, turning the page in his book.

John gives a withered sigh through his nose, leaning pitifully on his hand as he surveys the library. John would sit there with Sherlock for hours because Sherlock said he liked having someone to talk to, bounce ideas off of. The Slytherin would use his cat (Felicia, flighty and clever little thing), but she was rarely helpful. And John would sit there for hours without hearing a word pass from Sherlock's lips. Occasionally, Sherlock would smirk without looking up and tell him that he was doing fine.

The Hufflepuff stares out across at the other study tables, wondering just how much more he'd rather be practicing with the team than stuck inside again, pouring over scrolls and scrubbing ink stains from his fingers. He catches the big brown eyes of the nearest Ravenclaw peering unwaveringly at their table again, and John doesn't even remove his face from his hand to report it to Sherlock.

"That Molly Hooper hasn't taken her eyes off you the entire time we've been here." He shifts his eyes to Sherlock, who still hasn't looked up, but there's something on his lips like a smirk. "I think she's got it bad for you, Sherlock."

"She's infatuated," Sherlock corrects him tersely, taking a note on his parchment. "Especially since the Jennifer Wilson episode. She's practically worshipping the ground I walk on."

"Well, aren't you gonna let her know you're not interested?"

"She has her uses." He gives an amazingly loud cough to mask the sound of the page he rips out of the book, folding it deftly with a quick quirk of a smile in John's direction.

John is not amused, his face still cradled lazily in his hand but now fallen into a light scowl. He wants to reprimand Sherlock (like he's tried so many times, but the boy never listens, does what he wants and leaps blindly like an animal), but he's interrupted when someone walks into his peripheral vision.

"Oh, Jimmy, hello," John says, offering a smile (not so easy, banishing the expression he'd made for Sherlock so quickly for an about-face). "All right?"

"Just came from Potions," Jimmy says, and his eyes flick momentarily to Sherlock. "Hi, Sherlock."

Sherlock gives the usual noncommittal "Hm," and closes the vandalized book.

Jimmy's face doesn't droop, but his eyes do. He perks up instantly when he turns back to John. "You left this in the dungeon," he says, reaching into his bag and retrieving John's History of Magic textbook from deep inside.

John sits up quickly and smiles. "Thanks! I hadn't even realized—Jim, thanks, you're a godsend. Binns has this bloody awful essay he wants written by Tuesday on the Goblin Wars—"

"Don't worry about it." Jimmy smiles broadly, all his teeth showing. "Got to study. Bye, John. Bye, Sherlock." He does a quick bob and he rushes off. He's still small for his age, rushing away on legs too small and skinny. He comes to a hasty halt beside a tall, square-jawed Gryffindor that John recognizes from the Quidditch team; the Keeper, a Fifth-Year. He thinks his name is Moran, but he can't be sure. Something Irish. Moran scrubs Jimmy's hair fondly, and once he gathers his things, they're off together.

Why can't Sherlock be encouraging to the younger ones like that, now and then?

"You could stand to be nice to someone every once in a while," John sighs, turning back to his friend.

Sherlock gives a humorless laugh. "It's work enough to keep one friend happy. I can't see how you do it without giving yourself an aneurism." He stands abruptly, shoving the folded page in his pocket. "Now, come on, it's nearly time for Care of Magical Creatures, and I have an experiment in mind before we're off..."

* * *

Toby comes flying in unexpectedly the day before Christmas holiday, and John reads the letter from his mother with growing horror and dread. The words _new boyfriend_ and _cruise _jump out immediately, followed by _Spain_ and _stay at Hogwarts_. Signed away as thoughtlessly as someone might write to a pet.

At first, he goes to Professor Sprout, who says that she can't help him. Then, to Professor Cairnes, who had come around at the beginning of December with the sign-up sheet (which he'd declined at the time, because he hadn't thought he'd be needing to stay at Hogwarts). She said that she couldn't help him either, but she was a kind old soul and it was she who escorted John Watson to the Headmistress's office.

"I know it's last-minute notice, Professor," John says, holding back angry tears as calmly as he can. "But Harry and I don't have anywhere else to go."

McGonagall doesn't sigh like he's thrown another burden on her chest. She doesn't berate him for sneaking another two children to look after on her conscience. She smiles as if he's given her something sweet or shining. She lowers her spectacles to look at him (looking at him like she can't believe how he's lent himself to the delusion of disappointment) and says: "Of course you can stay, Mister Watson."

She pulls out the scroll that Professor Cairnes had brought about at the beginning of December. It's not a long list. He signs the names of two Watsons at the bottom, a sense of dread finality to it. His first Christmas away from home, and it was because his mother wanted a vacation with some man he'd never even met.

"Brilliant," Sherlock says when John tells him the whole story.

John's mouth stays open, wounded but also very confused. "No, it's really not. Sherlock, we're kicked out of our own house. For _Christmas_."

"No, I mean: Brilliant, you can stay _with_ me. I've really grown tired of the monotony and barely-concealed hatred associated with Christmas dinners at home. So I'll be staying." He's on his feet and moving; he hardly ever stops, some days. "I wasn't looking forward to running my experiments alone. You know, I think I've rather gotten used to having you around, John."

John hangs his head, and he's not sure why, but Sherlock's made him feel better about the whole situation. "Next year, if mum's there next year that is, you can come 'round to ours. Christmas dinner, that is."

Sherlock looks as though John has hit him with a truck. He seals his lips tight and nods once.

They get up to very little trouble once all of the other students have gone, though Sherlock does set fire to one of the twelve enormous evergreens in the Great Hall. Twice. One time John whips out his wand and shouts _Aguamenti!_ before much damage is done, and Flitwick gives Hufflepuff an extra ten points for the save and for the impressive use of the high-level Charm. The second time, Hagrid the groundskeeper is there himself to throw his heavy coat over the flames and pat them out. By all means, he should deduct points from Slytherin, but Sherlock is the only Slytherin who doesn't show him outward aggression. So he lets it slide.

John is the only Hufflepuff left over the holiday, and it feels strange to have the normally-packed common room all to himself. Harry has Clara, whose family doesn't like to have her back for the holiday (would probably like to have her at Hogwarts the year 'round if they could), and John has Sherlock. Only two other students aside from the four of them stay for winter holiday: Anderson, the Slytherin who took a beating out on Sherlock the first day of second year, and Moran (Sebastian, John learns over holiday, is his first name), the Gryffindor Keeper.

He wakes up Christmas morning with several presents piled at the foot of his bed, grinning sleepily as he gathers them and waddles full-armed out into the common room. He's not really surprised to find Sherlock already there, he's guessed the password three times before already. He's sunken into the biggest armchair and writing fiery letters in the air as he waits (_BORED BORED BORED_), bolting upright when John enters.

"John. Happy Christmas. You're still in your pyjamas."

"Yeah, well, I just woke up, didn't I?" He curls up on the floor by Sherlock's chair, spreading his presents out around him. The Slytherin has three packages of his own. "You want to go first, or should I?"

"It makes no difference to me," Sherlock says, but John can tell he's itching to open them just as much as he is. So John nods in deference.

Mycroft's is first (John can tell the professional, careful handwriting anywhere). Some sort of spyglass that he's sure is more than it seems, but Sherlock doesn't say anything. Then, it's John's turn. He opens two for Sherlock's one, he has a fair bit more. A packet of chocolate frogs from Violet and a jumper from his mum (very impersonal, but it's warm and he slips it on over his pyjamas). Sherlock gets a letter from Mummy which expresses general distress over his absence from Christmas dinner, as well as a pair of even-more-impersonal socks. Sherlock frowns and tosses them aside. John opens Harry's present, and he nearly falls over sideways laughing: she's been to the Weasley shop and stuffed a box with Wildfire Whiz-Bangs and a note that says "I expect a party." It must be her way of making up with him.

Sherlock is peering at his last present, turning it over in his hands carefully as if measuring its weight. John scratches at the neck of his wool jumper and cranes over to peer at the present. "Who's that one from?"

"I don't know," Sherlock answers cooly. It brings a strange smirk to his eyes. "Let's find out."

"Wait, Sher—" But it's too late to warn against mysterious packages, because Sherlock tears into the wrapping to reveal a small, unmarked box. John stands warily and circles around behind Sherlock's chair to get a better look at it.

Inside the box is a tiny vial of liquid and a note. It's clear by the label that it's a love potion, and John utters a short snicker that he quickly swallows at Sherlock's serious look. The Slytherin's fingers carefully extract the note, and he unfolds it.

_Thinking of you, handsome. XX_

"Two kisses," John utters with a barely-containable laugh. "Who wants to bet it's from Molly?"

"It's not her handwriting," Sherlock bites back with a frown. "And it wasn't written by any sort of self-dictating quill, those don't leave ink splotches like that one there." He holds the note up to the light, but it's normal parchment and normal ink, so far as he can tell. "The handwriting is fairly asexual, leaning to the masculine. Hard to tell much beyond that, the note's too short."

"Well, you've got a secret admirer, whoever it is," John notes, leaning on the back of the chair to pick up the potion. "This one's Weasely as well. Maybe it was Harry."

They both let themselves laugh for quite a long time.

"Oh," John says, snapping to attention. "Bollocks. Hold on a sec, right back." John disappears down to the dormitory, reemerging with another wrapped package in his hands. This one's wrapped messily in old pages of The Daily Prophet, and John plops it unceremoniously in Sherlock's lap. "Got it while we were in Hogsmeade. It's not much but..." He shrugs the end of his sentence away.

Sherlock stares at it like John's dropped a bomb on his lap. He unwraps it just as carefully. It's a brace of new quills, sturdy and reliable rather than beautiful (John had seen an incredibly fancy peacock quill and had considered it for exactly three seconds before laughing aloud in the shop) and Sherlock is blinking far too much. If John had to describe the expression, he might say _flabbergasted_.

Sherlock gets up without a word and leaves the common room, leaving everything but the quills behind. John doesn't see him for the rest of the day.

Just when he's worried that he's done something or said something to upset Sherlock, John finds him at the Christmas dinner. It's a small affair, with only six students and four teachers (McGonagall, Flitwick, Trelawney and Hagrid, all of them in ridiculous paper hats), but with more food than will ever be necessary piled high on the table. Sherlock stands hastily when John appears in the Great Hall, and every student there gives him a horrible look.

He meets John halfway, holding a package (also wrapped in the Prophet) out between them like a peace offering. He looks incredibly nervous when John takes the package from his hands (now that they're empty, he doesn't know what to do with them so he kneads his fingers together).

"I'm not in the business of finding _presents_ for anyone. I wasn't sure what..." Sherlock frowns and stares at the package rather than the extremely confused Hufflepuff. "Well, open it, for God's sake."

It's a box full of tea. Proper tea, Muggle tea, the kind that comes in bags and fills his senses with a wonderful earthy smell.

John looks up to see Sherlock peering at him like a dog expecting to be struck. So John gives an amazingly wide smile, which prompts Sherlock's to twitch up at the edges.

* * *

It's nearly June, and it's too hot to study in the library, so they've taken their books and scrolls to the Great Hall. They're neck-deep in piles of papers when someone approaches from behind John and stops to stare.

Both John and Sherlock look up at the same time. It's a Gryffindor girl, one that John has seen in the hall but never directly spoken to. Probably a sixth or seventh year. She's staring past John and right at Sherlock, whose face betrays nothing. John frowns.

"Can I help you?" he asks shortly. It's too warm to deal with drama (especially since Anderson had tried to trip Sherlock and a pile of books down the main staircase yesterday and John had to be restrained to keep from socking him).

"Hot, isn't it?" the girl says. Her eyes look oddly lazy, as if she's not using them properly.

"Yeah, it is," John says, even though she's still looking unblinking at Sherlock. "We're studying right now, if that's all right. Sherlock can get back to you in an hour or so."

"Good job on my first riddle, Sherlock," the girl says, and this time Sherlock's face twitches into some form of expression: interest. His shoulders and back straighten, and whatever he's been working on is long forgotten. "I thought I'd make the first one easier for you. Get your muscles working." The girl smiles now that she has Sherlock's attention. "Did you like your present? I would have loved to see your face when you opened it. Kiss kiss, love."

Sherlock's eyes dart around the Great Hall. No one is even looking in their direction, let alone suspiciously. The Gryffindor girl gives an airy laugh.

"Oh, I'm not here. Good luck finding me, though. I'm a good hider, Sherlock." She winks playfully. "I think I'll come up with another little puzzle for you, something to keep you busy."

With that, she turns and walks briskly through the main doors. John misses the look of hearty anticipation that flashes in Sherlock's eyes before he's shoved off from the table and sprinting after the girl. Sherlock's calling after him, but John doesn't stop until he's caught the girl (who struggles against him, but he's got a powerful grip on her arm). He shouts at her, gaining the attention of several people around them, to her cries of _I don't know what you're talking about_ until Lestrade finds him and asks him just what the hell is going on.

In a tense meeting with Professors Slughorn and Flitwick, they find that the girl's had a powerful memory charm set on her, and the entire meeting with Sherlock and John is gone (including several hours previous). She's crying big, fat tears and John can't help the strange feeling pounding at his ribcage.

The fact remains that someone erased the girl's memory, and someone has threatened Sherlock Holmes. John hardly lets the boy out of his sight the rest of the day, and insists that they study in the Hufflepuff common room instead of in the open when evening sets in. But neither of them can really focus on the task at hand, the girl's words sticking in both of their minds.

Eventually, John snaps his book shut and gives up.

"What did she mean, first riddle?"

"Don't be dull, John," Sherlock says, pressing the tips of his fingers together. "_She_ didn't mean anything. She was under the Imperius Curse, it could have been anyone in the castle. And whoever is holding the wand poisoned Jennifer Wilson."

The color drains from John's face. An Unforgivable Curse at Hogwarts. On a student, no less, and meant for Sherlock. "That was a _riddle_? She nearly died!" He tries to get some sort of grip on the thought. "And... and she—er, they?—said something about _another_ puzzle. D'you think...?"

"Another poisoning? Probably not. They've done it before, no need to get regular." His eyes shift to John's, analyzing but not scrutinizing. "I have some questions to ask." And he's up without another word, rushing off on long legs to leave John behind in the dust.

John isn't sure why he feels so abandoned. After all, what use would he be in a line of investigation, especially tagging alongside someone as smart as Sherlock? He still feels the sting of it in the back of his throat as his head droops involuntarily. Sherlock's even left all his things, the untidy git. So John stands and starts to clean up so he can forget the feeling of being left behind.

There's a noise behind him, and John turns to see Sherlock leaning casually on the door frame. "You're good with Charms," he says as if he's just noticed John. "And you spend your summers at St. Mungo's, so you know a bit about maladies."

John nods. "A bit, yeah."

Sherlock's eyes narrow knowingly, lips pressing into a thin smirk. "Would you like to come?"

"God, yes!" John grabs his wand and leaps from the chair after him.

They end up in the library anyway, and John doesn't ask why Sherlock knows the Gryffindor girl will be there, but she is. And he finally remembers where he's seen her (Mary Morstan, prefect from the train who broke up the fight) and now he feels even worse for her.

The three of them find a nearby empty classroom and Sherlock asks all the questions. John is sure that she's already answered all these questions for the Headmistress and Professor Flitwick, but there's something different about Sherlock and the way he processes information. She tells them everything she remembers about that day: breakfast with the other Gryffindors, Divination, deducting five points from Slytherin for Anderson's crass mouth outside the third-floor hallway; but everything between lunch and being bullied by John is gone.

But Sherlock doesn't ask for the facts of what's missing. He asks for what it had felt like. And her eyes go far away as she tries to pull the memories out of nowhere. Like she was watching herself do things, lying on a cloud and not caring where she was going or who she was speaking to. Not scared in the least. Which was the most frightening thing of all.

John's not sure what Sherlock hopes to gain from interrogating someone who can't remember anything. There's absolutely no way of telling who cast the spell on her, and they can't just go around testing the wands of everyone in the castle (surely one of the professors could, if they'd wanted to, but the Headmistress had balked at Sherlock's suggestion of the Imperius Curse). John wonders if they should leave the investigation up to the adults, but he realizes late one night holding his lit wand aloft for Sherlock to examine something on the floor of the dungeon, that he loves this. Loves the running and the mystery, and he's sure that Sherlock loves it too.

But exams are over before long, and they're on the platform at Hogsmeade, unsure of what to say in lieu of the revelation of a new riddle looming on the horizon.

"Listen," John says at last, "if something comes up, if anyone gets in contact with you about this riddle thing, send me an owl. And if... Well, if nothing happens, send me an owl anyway."

Sherlock nods absently. "I will."

John holds up his pinkie finger between them, his face deadpan and serious. For the first time since Mary Morstan spoke someone else's words in the Great Hall, Sherlock laughs and it's not at all uncomfortable. "Really, John?"

"Oh yes," John assures him that this is in all seriousness.

So Sherlock links his pinkie with John's and they shake on it.  


* * *

AN: Oh right, there's a plot. THE PLOT BEGINS! I am so ridiculously excited, I am loving this beyond all reason and I wish I could do nothing all day but write this fic. Oh, and I have reasons for putting Moran in Gryffindor and I'll explain if anyone wants me to. Thanks so much to everyone for all the love you're giving, it makes my tiny heart glow. A million hugs to beta Lady Dan, and thanks so so much to everyone for reading, leave us some love, and STAY AWESOME!


	4. Year Four

**.year four.**

Anne Watson is a Muggle. John doesn't tell anyone. It's not that he's embarrassed, it's the fact that there are still Muggleborns and half-bloods being killed by the last few Death Eaters who refuse to give up the fight. Just last week, in the middle of July, a Muggle and his kid back for the holiday from Salem Witches' Institute were killed, and the Dark Mark burned in the sky. John loves his mother, and he loves his sister, and so he stays quiet.

The odd owl coming in and out of their unassuming house on the outskirts of Guildford never bothered the neighbors, and both he and Harry still have the Trace on them, so there's no chance of exploding sparks at three in the morning blowing out all the windows on the street.

So, when an enormous horned owl swoops in through John's window long after dark with a note in its beak, no one thinks anything of it. Except John.

It's Sherlock's owl, or at least the Holmes's owl. John runs his fingers down the strong feathers in its wing as he reads through the note in his friend's sloppy, slapdash handwriting.

_John,  
Mysterious letter arrived early this morning on the front step. Checked for traps, am fine. Note reads as follows: "Solve it this time, lover boy. This boy has a secret, I wonder what it is?" Enclosed is the photograph that was supplement with the letter. I've no idea who he is. Hope you are well, looking forward to seeing you soon.  
SH_

John's mouth opens and closes in disbelief: that the mysterious hand behind Jennifer Wilson's poisoning is contacting Sherlock, that John knows the young man in the photo, but mostly that Sherlock can just brush it all off. He gives himself a moment to shake it off and quickly grabs up a quill to scribble off a reply (the owl seems to know, it waits with its huge luminous eyes following him as he paces his room).

_Sherlock:  
Andrew West, Gryffindor Quidditch captain. This is dangerous, you should tell someone about these notes. Meet at Diagon Alley to talk it over?  
John_

He taps his quill several times in thought over the last part. Because he _is_ concerned over this whole thing, and he really wants to talk Sherlock out of it in person. Without giving it any more thought, he offers the letter to the owl, who takes off unceremoniously.

When John cracks his eyes open at first light, the owl is back, perched calmly on his windowsill and peering dully at him. John creaks when he gets up to take the letter, rubbing one eye with the heel of his hand.

_Thought you'd never ask. Will be there Saturday, meet me at Leaky Cauldron, noon sharp. Do not bring Harriet. I'm sorry I missed your birthday, have been very busy.  
SH_

John buries his face in his hands and doesn't give the owl anything to take back to Sherlock. After flops back down into his bed, John hears the owl spread its wings and finally take off into the early morning.

On Saturday, he throws on a coat and tells his mother he's off to London to see a friend (she won't stop him, she never has). Harry catches him at the door, her face pulled into a frown.

"It's that Sherlock bloke, isn't it?" she asks, and it's not her usual hatred in her voice. He'd told her the story of Mary Morstan and the mysterious words from an unknown mouth, and since the end of his third year, Harry's grown quieter and more grave. Her hand lingers on John's shoulder and she grips feebly.

John nods. "Yeah, it is."

And even though he stands tall and is ready to fight back, she doesn't lash out with the harsh words he expects. She looks worried, and it's been years since she's been worried about him (_expressed_ worry; she worries about him all the time and she'll never tell him).

"Careful, Johnny," she says, and her voice doesn't break because she wills it not to. "Bad things happen around that boy."

"I'll be fine," he tells her. And he smiles. "Don't call me Johnny, all right?"

Her fingers skirt away. "Right, little brother. Get... get more of those Whiz-Bangs from Weasley's while you're in."

"Love you too, Harry," he says, and he's out the door.

The train in to Charing Cross hardly takes twenty minutes, and he's at the Leaky Cauldron in another five.

There are two witches eating lunch and one wizard at the bar, but it's otherwise gloriously empty. John lingers inside the doorway for a handful of moments, feeling an odd anticipation as he bounces on the balls of his feet and searches for Sherlock. He doesn't have long to wait. It's two minutes after noon and Sherlock Holmes comes trotting down the stairs.

He hasn't had a haircut and his curls are nearly hanging in his eyes, and it looks as though he's having another one of those fits when he refuses to sleep. And he's somehow still growing taller, and John wonders if he'll ever stop. Pausing on the second step from the bottom, Sherlock scans the floor until his eyes find John. There's a movement at the edge of Sherlock's lips that's similar to a smile, and only someone who knows him like John does would recognize it as one.

"What're you doing upstairs?" John asks.

"I've decided that having Mycroft at home was better than having Mummy all to myself. She's suffocating me." He hops down the last two steps to join John. "The rent is reasonable."

"Hell, Sherlock," John sighs. "If you're desperate, you could've asked me, y'know."

Sherlock turns his head only slightly. "Asked you what?"

"To stay over?"

The surprise that arches Sherlock's brows into his hairline shows he hadn't even made the connection. "Oh. I... Thank you, John, but I have more than enough funds to stay on my own for a while."

"Fine. All right." John perches on the edge of the nearest table. "What about this letter, then?"

Sherlock smiles; John's said the right thing. "I'm going quill testing. I've already narrowed down the ink that was used to three specific brands, and it's unfortunate they're all so common. And the parchment—"

"Sherlock," John interrupts, his hand held up between them in surrender. "Is this what you've been doing all summer?"

The Slytherin boy cocks his head. "Yes. Obviously."

"That's not normally what people do on holiday."

A frown ticks onto his face, and is gone just as quickly. "What do _normal_ people do? For their _normal_ holidays?"

John shrugs. "Practice Quidditch, study up, meet up with your mates. There's this girl Sarah—"

Sherlock is already moving. "Well, you're my friend and here we are. If you'd rather not test quills with me, you can waste your time in that pedantic Weasley shop. Your sister likes it well enough."

"Hey, Sherlock," John calls after him, hopping off the table, "come on, now. No need to get all worked up about it, I'm coming."

Owls swoop and screech in greeting when they appear in Diagon Alley proper, and there's a pop and a bang from nearby, followed by a shower of silver sparks. John grins a he rubs the metallic confetti from his hair, but Sherlock has moved on without noticing, making a beeline for the stationery shop.

John hops to a halt in front of the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies, gazing longingly at the Firebolt in the window (_Good enough for the Boy Who Lived, good enough for you!_ the sign says in curling letters), and lets loose a soul-destroying sigh.

Sherlock is beside him, crouching down to John's height to stare into the window with a look of boredom and apprehension on his face.

"Wish I had one of my own," John said wistfully. "Not a Firebolt, mind. I don't know anyone who's got that sort of money for a bloody broom. Mike's Nimbus is nice, but it's old and a bit jerky if you don't turn just the way it likes, and I can't believe I've been borrowing it so long."

Sherlock doesn't say a thing, observing the window dressing for a mere fraction of a moment longer before he lays an arm around John's shoulder to steer him away to the little stationery shop next door.

"Mister Holmes," says the white-haired woman behind the desk when the bell rings. "Back already? I saw you not yesterday." She smiles, retrieving cats-eye spectacles and peering at the two of them. "And you've brought a friend. Looking for any more ink, then?"

"Quills," Sherlock says, bounding into the shop. "And John will have parchment."

"Right," John says with a sigh, though he steels himself up strongly and follows.

They've two writing samples between them (the note from Christmas past and the newest having arrived on Sherlock's doorstep not yesterday), Sherlock already having run his own tests to determine whether the ink and parchment matched between them (it did). John took the newer sample and stepped into the teetering, creaking shelves full of rolls and rolls of parchment.

Sherlock only checks on John once in their entire afternoon in the shop, and he finds the Hufflepuff entirely focused on his task and diligently working. Catching movement in the corner of his eye, John looks up and smiles, beckoning the Slytherin to his side to ask again about fiber density and strength.

Time is gone too quickly, and by the time John has extricated himself from a pile of loose-leaf parchment, it's gone full-dark outside. John nearly leaps out of his shoes, pulling his hair and gibbering about how he's ever going to explain this to his mother.

"I've sent an owl," Sherlock says passively. "What did you find?"

His jaw loose, John somehow finds some way to speak again around the audacity. The parchment that seems the most-likely candidate was manufactured in Slough, a small but diligent wizarding workforce, and isn't particularly cheap or expensive. Middling, John reports with a sigh.

Sherlock gives him the most awkward pat on the shoulder John can remember receiving, grinning happily. "Brilliant." And he's off again, wishing the witch behind the counter a good night. John takes off after him, shouting: "You sent an owl saying _what?_"

It's Sherlock's first sleep-over. He lets John take the bed, and he sprawls out on the uncomfortable divan. John snores.

And when John rubs the sleep from his eyes in the morning, Sherlock is gone, leaving only a long package and a note behind.

_Thank you for your help, you've been truly invaluable. Meet here again in a week and we can narrow down where these notes came from. For your troubles.  
SH_

It's a Nimbus 2001, brand new. John nearly cries.

* * *

There are more owls that summer than there have ever been, swooping in and around the unassuming house on the outskirts of Guildford. Some of the neighbors finally notice, but nothing more unusual than sniping whispers come of it. The old couple across the street give John and Harry a wink the next time they're out, and the old woman isn't afraid to water her flowerbed from the tip of her wand when the kids go by.

The next time that John sees Sherlock, a week after the Nimbus, he practically breaks every rib in the Slytherin's body when he grabs his friend in a swooping, crushing embrace. All of Sherlock's air goes from his body, and it's a good long time before he can reclaim it and start talking about the mysterious notes again.

John is a far more enthusiastic participant in the search for clues this time, and it's not the gift that set him so firmly into it. It's the brief and nearly unheard bolstering _Brilliant, John_ that Sherlock utters when John's done something right.

There are only two shops in Britain that sell the combination of parchment, ink and quill used on the notes. One is in Cork. The other is in Leeds. "We find the boy from Leeds, we find our mystery writer," Sherlock says eagerly.

"Could be anyone," John says. "Could be from Cork, you don't know."

"We'll just have to take the train to Leeds and find out, won't we?" He's grinning like a cat, and John doesn't know what to say.

"Sherlock... No, I can't. I can't go to _Leeds_." He shakes his head, completely missing the frown growing on Sherlock's face. "You're completely mad. Send me an owl."

The owls come and go. No more mysterious letters. Only an unnamed writer from Leeds (it's huge and though Sherlock confirmed the location of the shop, he was no closer to who had purchased the supplies) and the unknown mystery of Andrew West.

He doesn't see Sherlock again until the Slytherin walks into his compartment on the Hogwarts Express. He doesn't lead into casual conversation, simply leaps right in with: "Andrew West is Head Boy this year."

John's face tugs into a familiar smile. "Hi to you, too. What's so important about him being Head Boy?"

Sherlock takes the seat across from John, pressing his fingertips together. "The note on my front step. It said that he has a secret. All the more to lose now that he's Head Boy."

"So you think someone's going to air out this bloke's dirty underwear?" John asks. "And what, get him expelled? That's a step down from poisoning, isn't it?" Merlin's beard, when did that turn into a joke?

Sherlock nods absently. "Yes, but the note never indicated the severity of the secr–" The Slytherin looks up halfway through his word, because a new face is looming in through the door. Sherlock sneers and says quietly: "Can I help you?"

"Sarah," John cuts in, nearly leaping from his seat. "Hi. Er."

"Hi, John," she replies, having ignored Sherlock completely. "May I?"

"No," Sherlock says at the same time that John intones:

"Yeah, of course, have a seat!" And he's grinning from ear to ear when she sits beside him. "Oh, right, Sherlock, this is Sarah Sawyer."

Sherlock inclines his head only slightly, crosses his arms and stares out the window before they've even begun to move.

John laughs and continues. "Sarah, this is Sherlock Holmes."

"Heard all about you," Sarah says pleasantly.

"Have you?" Sherlock snaps.

"Don't listen to him," John treads over the last of Sherlock's sentence, smiling hopefully into its place. "How was your holiday?"

Sherlock doesn't speak for the rest of the trip. He does, however, see John turn his entire body in his seat to face the girl, smiling like an idiot the whole way to Hogwarts. Sherlock doesn't say a word, pulls his knees up to his chest, and hardly acknowledges when John tries to pull him into conversation (which, after three attempts, he ceases). John buys her a chocolate frog from the trolley.

When the feast is over, Sherlock can see the two of them at the edge of the Hall. John stands ramrod straight, and his hands aren't shaking, and she nods very enthusiastically to whatever he's said. John peers around the corner of the door to make sure that she's gone, and then loses all control and leaps into the air. Sherlock tucks further into his pudding.

"Sherlock!" John calls, following after the boy who is trudging down the steps to the dungeon. "Sherlock!"

He turns, doesn't smile. "Yes, John?"

"Sarah's coming with me to practice," he says, brimming with sunshine in his eyes. "Says she's never been to practice before, I told her it's mostly boring but—it's sort of like a date."

He expects Sherlock to take the information as well as he had. Or at least be happy for him. Instead, the Slytherin's frown deepens. "When is it?"

"Hm?" His head is so full of sunbeams it's difficult to concentrate fully.

"Practice." Sherlock intones every syllable with distaste.

"Oh, uh." John struggles with the dates in his head. "Coming Thursday. I think."

Sherlock's face does an interesting dance, and finally settles on vaguely hopeful. "I'd like to talk to Andrew West. Can you be free Wednesday after classes?"

For the briefest moment, John wants to tell Sherlock to just forget it. Forget the mystery note and the boy from Leeds (or Cork), forget about sorting through piles of parchment and washing the ink splotches from his skin for days. But then he remembers Mary Morstan and the Unforgivable that was cast right inside the castle. Carrying Jennifer Wilson between them, screaming and crying for her life. John swallows the light from his eyes, and he nods.

"Of course."

Sherlock smiles again, and John doesn't realize until he's halfway to the common room that he's glad to see it.

* * *

Lestrade moves the first practice to Wednesday because West needs to trade out days on the pitch (one of his beaters is sick and it's not worth dragging the whole team out without him), and John is left with no choice.

It's not the first time he's used the broom he found in the Leaky Cauldron where Sherlock had left it for him (how could he resist? He'd taken it to the park overlooking the village and zoomed about in clandestine loops, hiding his shouts of joy), but it feels heavier this time. He has to make a stop before heading out to the pitch. Two stops. But the first is the dungeon.

In full Quidditch gear, broom in hand, John frets in front of the entrance to the Slytherin common room, hopping uselessly on the balls of his feet as he attempts to remember the password Sherlock had told him.

"Humdinger... Horsefly... Harbinger... Harridan... Dammit, what was it?" John mutters under his breath.

"What's he doing here?" says a voice suddenly from behind him, and John turns to see Anderson, the Slytherin who had tried to fight Sherlock on the train years ago. Anderson; it's a name he's heard countless times in foul rapport, and there was hardly a kind word spoken of him. He's flanked by two more Slytherins, both as big as he is and rather foul-looking themselves. "A Hufflepuff in the dungeon? Sounds like someone trying to tell a joke."

One of the others gives a rumbling laugh. John flattens his lips into a white line and takes a step back from the wall.

"He's a Mudblood, y'know," says one of the other boys smugly. "Saw them _drive_ up to King's Cross."

John knows that all his blood is in his face, because his vision's gone red. "Don't you dare," he warns. And the Slytherins laugh, most of all dog-faced Anderson.

"We don't look kindly on sneaking Mudbloods trying to get into _our_ common room," Anderson spits. And they're advancing, all three of them, like a wall. "Here's something you can take back to your little friends in the kitchens."

He'd have to drop his broom to grab his wand, and he wants to. He really wants to hex the smirks off of all three of those faces. But someone beats him to it.

Before John can blink, someone casts three Jelly-Legs Jinxes and the Slytherins are on the ground. A pair of trainers come running up the hall toward him, wand still extended in case the would-be attackers might try anything funny, and he finally meets John's eye.

"Are you all right?" Jimmy Moriarty asks, his huge eyes traveling from John to the prostrate, complaining figures on the dungeon floor.

"Yeah," John croaks, still taken by surprise. "Fine. Thanks, I—"

"They shouldn't have said that," Jimmy cuts in, his face blank and serious, staring down at Anderson and his lackeys. "They really shouldn't have. It was uncalled for. Really very _rude_," he stresses. He turns back to John, looking him once over again, just in case. "Are you here for Sherlock?"

"I was—" The shock of the attack and the retaliation still hasn't slipped away. "I can't help him today. Practice was moved. I've really got to go, Jimmy, could you tell him for me?"

"Absolutely," Jimmy says, a grin breaking slowly over his face. "Good luck, John."

"You're really something else, mate," John says with an appreciative smile before leaving the hallway at a run.

He barely has time to pick up Sarah outside the Great Hall, gripping her hand in his and not even breaking his stride, before running out the huge main entrance and toward the pitch with her giggling in his wake.

The Nimbus is a dream, turns at a whim like it's reading his mind and knows exactly where he wants it to go. And even though he's rusty because of all the time spent in stationery shops with Sherlock, he still cracks the bludger with enough force to knock all the air from Lestrade's lungs and nearly send him plunging to the ground. Sarah cheers from the bleachers, and it's almost enough to distract him.

When they meet back up on the ground, John breathing full-lunged and covered in cooling sweat, she throws her arms in the air and congratulates him. When it starts to rain lightly and they're heading back to the castle, she nonchalantly slips her hand into his, and he's sure he couldn't be happier.

Sherlock is standing on the front steps, and the drizzle has dampened his fringe into his eyes. He shifts when he sees them, and brushes the hair directly up away from his forehead. His eyes shift from John to Sarah to their hands and finally back to John. Something drops out of his eyes, like there's no light in them anymore.

John's brows pinch in concern, but he smiles. "All right, Sherlock? How was Andrew West?"

Sherlock presses his weight on one foot, then the other, worrying his bottom lip in thought. Then, in a small voice, he answers: "I didn't go."

"What?" John asks, drawing himself up. "Why not?"

"I don't know," he answers truthfully, his frown heavy. "Someone said you were in a fight."

Sarah looks just as surprised at this, and she turns to John for an explanation. "No, it was—Jimmy cast a hex, and they didn't—" He can feel the heat crawling up his neck again, and in a stifled, hurried voice he spits it out: "They called me a Mudblood, Sherlock."

"Oh, John," Sarah consoles lightly, and it's real concern in her eyes.

"Well, are you?" Sherlock asks, breaking the moment.

John forgets all about Sarah, all about Jimmy and Anderson and everything else but the burning white hole that's suddenly in his vision, the hole in the middle of Sherlock's face. It bubbles up from inside him and he really can't help the weakness in his voice when he means it to be strong.

"Yeah, Sherlock." It feels like acid. "My mum's a Muggle so I'm only half a wizard. And I know that's not good enough for some of the Slytherins, but I thought it wouldn't matter to—" And he cuts himself off bitterly, brushing by in an unstoppable charge, leaving both Slytherin and Gryffindor behind to stare open-mouthed at his back.

And Sarah sees it, but she'll never tell anyone that she has. Sherlock Holmes's frantic paw at his damp hair as he watches John Watson speed through the doors, the lightning-like way his eyes shift in their sockets when he forces them to think, and the catlike bolt when he dashes after the steaming Hufflepuff. She sees it, doesn't say a word, and she follows.

The portrait hole has already closed by the time Sherlock makes it there, and he curses lightly, kicking at a flagstone.

"Homunculus," Sherlock snaps at the still life, which doesn't move. "Dittany! Bubotuber!" And the portrait swings open on the last, just in time for Sarah to follow after, surprised and wide-eyed (most especially that she's following at all).

The common room is packed, as usual, but this time the faces aren't so kind as Sherlock is used to seeing them. It's because John is standing in the middle of them, his shoulders shaking (rage, barely-contained tears _again_; how is Sherlock so good at pulling them from him?), and they don't know what's happened but they can guess that it has to do with the pale-faced Slytherin that's just come in behind him.

(Sarah lingers behind because she can feel the history rolling off the two of them, and she knows that interrupting now is precisely what she'd oughtn't do.)

Carl is at John's shoulder, and he gives it a short shake when he sees Sherlock. John doesn't turn immediately, gives himself time to adjust his shoulders and pull everything back close to his chest. He hardly has the time to turn before Sherlock's barreled into him, gripping the shorter boy in a crushing embrace. John can't retaliate, his face is buried in Sherlock's scarf, but his arms do manage to flail in surprise at his side.

Just as quickly, Sherlock steps back and erases all contact save for the hands on John's shoulders. Serious gray eyes peer into him, and his voice is low and steady. "I could care less who your parents are. Do you really think that matters?"

It's the best "sorry" John will ever get, and he knows it. His eyes go elsewhere (of course Sherlock would be able to see the weakness no matter where he looks), and John nods.

"Sensitive subject," John says, and he hates his voice for croaking. "Thanks, though. For not caring."

"Good. You're welcome."

And it's right again. The Hufflepuffs welcome Sherlock back once they're sure that he's no threat to John (Badgers stick together; he knows they were ready to fight back with teeth and claws if he'd said the wrong thing), and Soo Lin even gives him a careful hug.

"You want to talk to Andrew West?" Sarah asks, eliciting a yip of shock from John, who hadn't seen her approaching. Sherlock looks faintly surprised at the question, and John nods enthusiastically.

"Yeah, definitely. Do you know him?"

"He's in my house," she replies, unable to keep from smiling at the growing acknowledgment (appreciation? no, surely not) in Sherlock's eyes. "I can have a chat with him, if you'd like. See if he has any time to talk?"

"Yes," Sherlock says, and though he still gives curious, fleeting glances between the Hufflepuff and the Gryffindor, he doesn't curl his lip at her anymore. "Please."

* * *

Andrew West comes to them. He's not a tall or imposing figure, and the way he comes to them knock-kneed and nervous, he doesn't particularly give off the air of a Head Boy. Certainly not the same as Mycroft Holmes (the world couldn't stand another Mycroft Holmes). He finds them in the library, gives a skittish look around at all the faces and begs them to come to the Gryffindor common room with him.

(John is not an uncommon face in Gryffindor Tower, but Sherlock is new and strange and he's wearing a green-and-silver scarf; it's almost exactly the same as throwing a red cape in front of a bull. The common room empties out almost completely, and all Sherlock does is smirk.)

Sherlock settles into a large comfortable armchair by the fire, presses his fingertips together and crosses his legs at the ankle as they stretch out for miles in front of him. He doesn't say a word, and John gives him an apprehensive sweep with his eyes before he turns to the Head Boy.

"All right, go on then, Andrew," John prompts. "Can I call you Andrew?"

"My friends call me Westy," the Head Boy says with a worried smile.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and so John cuts in firmly: "What's this all about, Westy?"

He wastes no time. "There's this girl."

"Oh, dull," Sherlock mutters under his breath, and only John can hear him (and he painfully hides the smirk that wants to bloom on his lips).

"Doesn't sound like a problem to me," John says, somehow masking his amusement. He doesn't wait for Westy's withered sigh to go on. "But all right, who is she?"

"Irene. Seventh Year, Ravenclaw. Smartest girl I ever met, and gorgeous."

"Irene _who_?" Sherlock asks in a bored voice. When John turns to look, his friend has his head tilted completely back to stare at the ceiling.

"Adler," the Head boy says, as if everyone should know her name. "She's going to ruin me. Get me expelled." He runs both hands through his short hair, and when he looks back up, he's halfway to frantic. "I can't afford to lose my standing at Hogwarts, I've been looking into this amazing job at the Ministry, and she's going to ruin _everything_."

"Blackmail," Sherlock says, still peering heavenward. "What does she have against you? Something potent, I'd guess."

"You don't guess," John adds, lopsided smirk returning.

Sherlock unthinkingly mirrors it. "Sometimes I do. When I'm bored." He sits fully up at last, facing Westy down in all seriousness. "Go on."

"We..." And his face darkens embarrassedly. His eyes sweep the room, and there are still a handful of Gryffindors studying and chatting quietly, including Sarah trying to discreetly listen in and Seb Moran scratching notes on a battered roll of parchment.

So Westy drags the heavy armchair closer into the circle where the three of them sit, leaning in and whispering darkly. "We were in the potion stores. Things got... _interesting_. Then, someone threw the door open and snapped a photo, Irene ran off; I thought she was embarrased. Hell, I was. And then when I got back to the common room, I found a lot of expensive ingredients in my bag I know I didn't put there."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock interrupts, "but what does _interesting_ imply?"

Westy hides his eyes, and John realizes it's up for him to explain (and John can barely contain the laugh that keeps knocking at his lungs). "Er, you see, Sherlock, when a bloke fancies someone and they're in a potions cupboard—"

"Oh God," Westy mutters into his hands. "She says she's got evidence that proves I was in there when the ingredients went missing. And if I don't get her a ridiculously large bit of money by spring, she's going to send it to the Headmistress."

John's been shaking his head since Westy started again. "Why don't you just tell 'em you didn't do it? I mean, she was in the cupboard, too, wasn't she?"

"Exactly, John," Sherlock says from beside him. "The compromising position—" Sherlock looks Westy up and down speculatively, then reclines back in the chair. "—_positions_ in which the evidence is clearly presented might clear his name as a thief, but it's still obvious that he was doing something where he shouldn't have been. And with someone he shouldn't have been with."

"How do you even...?" Westy's face is a few shades paler now. He finally nods, ashen. "Dating my future boss's daughter. I'd be sacked before I even got the job. Y'know, they told me you can see through everyone in seconds. I guess I didn't believe it 'til now." He quails briefly under Sherlock's brimstone glare, and finally buckles. "Listen, Holmes, I know you were brilliant with that poisoning a few years back, and you've been looking into whatever happened to Mary. You've got to help me."

Sherlock taps his fingers briefly against his lips, and after a long minute he finally shrugs. "We'll see what we can do."

_We_. Something in John's chest swells, and it's all he can do to keep from smiling rays of sunshine in the middle of Westy's misfortune.

"Thanks," Westy replies weakly. "Both of you. I'm counting on you."

"What does this have to do with Jennie being poisoned?" John asks once the Head Boy has left them alone again. Sherlock has his fingers steepled and pressed thoughtfully to his lips. "Unless it's this Adler girl who's been doing all of that?"

"Don't be absurd," Sherlock breathes. "Why should the guilty party alert us to their activity? No, this is something else."

"What?" John asks with a huff.

"A distraction," Sherlock replies. "Something to put us off the trail of whoever cast the Imperius Curse on Mary Morstan."

"So," John trails off, his eyes narrowing as they raise to the ceiling in thought, "we're not helping this West bloke out, then?"

"We may as well," Sherlock says, rising from his seat to flick his scarf over his shoulder. "Perhaps getting closer to her will give us a look at whoever is trying to hide from us."

"Whatever you say," John sighs, rising to meet him.

When they pass by Moran on their way out of the Gryffindor common room, John swears that he sees the older boy scowling and looking directly at them. In an instant it's gone, and a friendly grin beams up at John from the floor. "Looking forward to seeing you on the pitch, Watson," Moran says, and he's back to his homework.

* * *

Sherlock tries for three straight days to get into the Ravenclaw common room. He stands in front of the knocker and tries to answer its questions ("Abstract riddles, John. I hate them."), waits in vain to sneak in behind another student (they always catch him, and one even reports him to Professor Flitwick, who deducts five points from Slytherin for the cheek), and once even tries to get Molly Hooper to let him in. He puts on the best charm he can muster (and, John has to admit, when Sherlock wants to pretend to be someone else, he's practically charismatic), but Molly pouts generously at him and roughly informs the Slytherin that she has a new boyfriend and she's not really interested in talking to Sherlock right now.

It somehow leaves Sherlock dumbfounded and bereft, and John's not sure if he's laughed this hard in ages.

John stops Sarah in the hall somewhere between Transfiguration and History of Magic, leaving Sherlock at a bend in the hallway to scowl down the passage at them. She leaning against the wall and smiling lightly, and he brimming with confidence but still pink in the ears. She nods, and her fingers alight on his shoulder once before she turns and hops down the stairs in the opposite direction. John rejoins Sherlock, ears still blaring pink but looking just as thoroughly satisfied with himself as he does after a Quidditch match, and half as winded.

Sherlock doesn't have to deduce much of anything to remember that this coming weekend is a Hogsmeade trip, and that John has become hopelessly interested in the girl two years above him, and Sherlock could really care less about her. He scowls, but he doesn't say anything.

It's snowing the Saturday that John takes Sarah to Hogsmeade. Snowing and mostly quiet, with everyone who's come holed up inside one of the cozy-looking buildings. But Sarah loves the snow, smiling upward as the downy flakes touch her face and disappear. John's much more interested in Sarah than the snow, and more than once, she catches him staring. She grins, doesn't say a thing, and slips her arm into his.

And then Sherlock appears between them, says hello, and doesn't leave.

John opens his mouth and it hangs uselessly, and it looks as though Sarah is resigned to the mop of dark hair appearing in conjunction with John. "We're in luck, John," Sherlock says clandestinely.

"Why's that?" John sighs, resigning himself as well.

"Adler's here," he says tersely, and without a word, Sherlock unwinds the yellow-and-black scarf from around John's neck and slips it over his own. Then, with the briefest glance, Sherlock also swipes the gray knit cap from Sarah's head and throws it over his curls to obscure them. She gives a muted protest, but he's off and skipping down the snowy street, looking all the world like an awkward Hufflepuff and not a thing like Sherlock Holmes.

They follow, interested despite their annoyance.

Irene Adler is a very pretty young woman indeed. She doesn't look the sort to be a blackmailer, or even someone who would be doing all sorts of things in potions cupboards with boys. She looks smart and warm and kind, definitely not like a young criminal.

Sherlock is doing a very good job at not looking where he's going, and he certainly doesn't look as though he means to run full-bodied into Irene Adler, like two trains colliding in the street. All of her things, books and bags of gifts bought for Christmas, go scattering in the snow and Sherlock tumbles over, his long and gangly legs locking with hers. Together they hit the ground with a jarring crack, and Adler is up first, brushing the snow from her frock and fretting simultaneously over the boy.

When he brings his face from the ground, there's a large scuff mark on his cheek, and he's crying, lip wobbling in a truly horrible fashion. "I'm s-s-sorry," he stutters and shakes.

"No, no," Adler assures him, her hand patting the top of his head in a worried, motherly way. "Are you all right?"

Sherlock sniffles hideously. "Yeah, I th-think. Your things, oh no," he whines, and is immediately on his hands and knees in the snow to gather her fallen possessions. She's there, too, and they've soon recovered everything (albeit a bit soggier).

"Don't worry about it," she assures him with a hopeful little smile. On her way through the village, she passes by John and Sarah, gives a happy little nod, and she's gone.

John unravels his scarf from around Sherlock's neck and ignores the growing cat's smile on his friend's lips as he watches Irene Adler leave. He yanks Sarah's hat back and hands it over to the waiting girl's hands. "What the hell was that all about?" John asks, throwing his scarf back around his neck.

"I know what she's studying," Sherlock announces casually. "What her father does for a living, how many partners she's had in the last six months, and, most importantly where she's from."

"Sherlock," John exclaims in surprise. "There's no way you could've figured all that out in... in... ten seconds!"

"Nearly thirty, John, you give me too much credit." His eyes go to Sarah, and he utters a blank "Thank you" before he's off again. "She's not keeping the evidence against West in the castle, she has it somewhere more secure. Her home in Chelsea. We have until spring to find out where it is, and, if possible, flush it out and eliminate it."

And John should hate him. For ruining any alone time he'd planned with Sarah, for being as rude as possible, for assuming that John will always comply with what he asks. But he laughs. And even Sherlock seems slightly surprised, and soon Sarah has joined in.

"Brilliant," John breathes, and he must have imagined Sherlock's ears going bright pink (must have been the cold).

"Is it always like this?" Sarah asks, the three of them heading for the Three Broomsticks.

"Mostly," John says with a smirk. And his head turns when he hears the sound of a cat yowling and hissing. There's a sleek yellow tabby trying to sink its claws into a small owl, batting and leaping as it tries to escape, and John's eyebrows furrow as he recognizes the beast. "Sherlock, that's your cat!"

Sherlock turns his head, nonplussed. "She's an animal, John, let her be."

But John's already broken from the group, hissing _Felicia, no! Bad kitty!_ as he runs at her. She shrinks from John and, ears flat against her head, she skitters into a woodpile. The owl, not much injured, takes off into the snowy sky before John can get a better look.

He forgets the incident and dashes after his friends to finally head inside.

* * *

"Don't you dare sign that," John warns when Sherlock holds a quill up to the parchment Professor Cairnes is passing around at the beginning of December. Sherlock gives him a questioning look. "You're staying with me over holiday, remember?"

Sherlock stutters something, and it's not often John gets to see him speechless, so he grins and savors it. "Shut up," Sherlock snaps, but it's all in good fun when a smirk alights on half his face. "You meant that? I thought it was a laugh."

"No, I really did! I told my mum and everything!" John's grinning in full, shoves at Sherlock's shoulder once. "Don't you bloody back out on me now, Sherlock Holmes!"

Sherlock recovers, brushes his shoulder unnecessarily, and nods. "No, of course."

And so John and Sherlock ride the train back to London in the same compartment as Harry and Clara (who has also been invited this year and hasn't said a word to Sherlock; she was the one who had called Professor Flitwick on him and they are therefore hardly on speaking terms). Harry is civil, which is the least John can ask. Sherlock is civil enough.

"Sherlock," John pulls him aside at King's Cross before they can catch another train to Guildford. "You know my mum's a Muggle," and Sherlock doesn't roll his eyes because John is looking at him dangerously and he pokes Sherlock hard in the chest. "I know you're not used to living with Muggles, so listen up. If you deduce one single thing about my mum, I'm throwing you out and you can go back to yours. I know you think it's just observation, but if you think it's gonna hurt her feelings, just for one second, you'd best stop your mouth. Got it?"

Sherlock looks almost hurt for a moment, but then he considers John's reasoning and his eyes level out. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Anne Watson is a short woman, shorter now than John and Harry, and she hasn't done well for herself. Too thin, blonde hair gone gray from stress, and up in a fraying bun, and she looks as though she's tired and wasting away. But she pulls both her children into a loving embrace and holds them there for a very long time, smiling between the kisses she lauds them with.

She gives Clara a careful hug when they're introduced, and a firm handshake for Sherlock.

"That's a lovely name," Mrs. Watson says, smiling vaguely as she hangs up Clara's coat. "What does it mean?"

Sherlock wobbles on saying something for a few moments, and as John's amused smirk grows, Sherlock mumbles: "Fair-haired. It's rubbish."

John laughs and heads up stairs, and Sherlock gladly follows. They throw down an air mattress (something that Sherlock finds rather amusing), get him settled in, and there's a strange sense of familiarity that neither of them have ever really had before. Sitting in bed, talking without really listening what they're talking about.

Dinner that night is a quick and forgettable affair in front of the telly (John assures Sherlock it's not always like this, but his mum's just broken off with another boyfriend and she doesn't want to think tonight). Sherlock guesses the end to the mystery program before it's half done, but he only tells John (he doesn't say that it's because he's afraid Harry is looking for a reason to hit him). John cleans up for his mother, and after a few reluctant moments left alone with the girls, Sherlock rushes in to help him.

John dozes off not long after dinner, and when he wakes blearily in the night, he finds that Sherlock has shut off his light and is sitting quietly on the air mattress in the dark, eyes out the window and fingertips pressed to his mouth in thought. After a moment, he says "Go to sleep, John." And he does.

Mrs. Watson is tired and sad and sometimes she doesn't seem to be there at all, but Sherlock finds a present with his name on the tag under the tree on Christmas morning all the same. He's inspecting it in awe when John nudges him with his elbow, and Sherlock says a loud, apologetic "Thank you, Mrs. Watson!" into the still Christmas air. John giggles with his face buried into his new jumper, and even Harry manages a smirk.

Harry and John match in their hideous Christmas jumpers, and they both wear them like twin badges of pride. And when Sherlock opens his own package from Mrs. Watson, he gives an honest smile. It's a soft blue scarf; probably just something she saw hanging on a rack somewhere in town the day John sent an owl to ask if Sherlock could stay. But it makes him smile, and he thanks her again in a normal voice this time, wrapping it around his neck.

And he's ready, this year, when John hands him a package wrapped in the Prophet, because the one he hands to John in exchange is covered in the same moving newsprint. They both tear in at the same time.

Sherlock's gift to John is a pair of enchanted goggles for Quidditch, made to withstand wind and rain and, he was told, stinging insects. John snaps them onto his face immediately, grinning like an idiot to the amusement of the girls on the other side of the sitting room.

John's to Sherlock is a heavy book, an encyclopedia of rare and dangerous potions and their hard-to-find ingredients. He claims to have snuck into Knockturn Alley to fetch it for him, but his ridiculous story of peril is interrupted by his own laughter at the rapturous look on Sherlock's face as he flips through the pages.

John still has his goggles perched on his head when they finally pile into the dining room for Christmas dinner that evening. Harry is drinking too much, and she's openly stroking Clara's arm at the table. But save Harry's too-loud laughter, the dinner itself is civil and even enjoyable. Mrs. Watson asks simple questions of her guests ("Why aren't you with your own families? Are they well? You say your brother is at the Ministry?") and Sherlock is polite enough to answer kindly (because when he doesn't, John grinds his heel into Sherlock's toes).

But when everyone is cleaning up and clearing out, Mrs. Watson spies Harry and Clara under the mistletoe in the sitting room archway, and she goes ashen white and excuses herself to the kitchen. Sherlock, who had been headed for the stairs, turns when John lingers behind.

"John?" he prompts.

"Go on, Sherlock," John says, his eyes locked on the door to the kitchen. "Be right up." He leaves his friend's side, slips in through the door and doesn't close it.

Being Sherlock, he stays and he listens.

Anne Watson is crying. It's soft and it's strong, but she's crying. John kneels beside her chair, young face full of old concern and a pain that's been there too long. He lets her go for a long minute, and he doesn't touch her like he knows better. He stays, though. And once she's stuttered to a halt, she takes the proffered tissue he's holding out for her.

"Is it my fault that Harriet's the way she is?" Mrs. Watson cries softly. "She and that girl? It's the way I raised her, isn't it?"

John stammers to find the right words at first. And then he's strong. "Nothing's your fault because there's nothing wrong with Harry."

Mrs. Watson fixes her son with a horrified look, and it only makes John stronger.

"There's nothing wrong with Harry or Clara and they can snog whoever they like, and it's not up to you if it's wrong or not." He stands quickly, backing a step to have an angry look at her. "You've got your boyfriend of the month, how's that any worse than Harry and Clara? Or anyone for that matter, it's—"

He clamps his mouth shut when his mother starts to cry again. He can't stand it, can't stand that he's shouted at her even though he knows he's right. So he stomps out of the kitchen, throwing the door open and nearly running into Sherlock on his way out.

John stares him down, and the anger puckers in his eyes, knowing instantly that Sherlock's listened to the whole thing and found that they're vulnerable. He doesn't like being vulnerable, knowing that someone knows all his secrets, and even though nothing on Sherlock's face is reading him or judging him, he's angry with him nonetheless. So he keeps stomping, past Sherlock, past Harry and Clara, up the stairs, and he doesn't stop until he's in his pyjamas and in bed, curled up and angry under the covers.

Sherlock comes in not long after, not saying a word as he shuts out the light and sits quietly on the air mattress on John's floor. And, as usual, John is the first to break (because he hates being angry and holding a grudge, and he hates the drama of relationships and what they do to everyone, and Sherlock is only Sherlock).

"I'm not mad," John begins.

"Good," Sherlock murmurs. "Thank you for the book."

"You're welcome," John says into the darkness. Then, because his mind is still circling his mother's disastrous chain of relationships, Harry and Clara and the unbidden image of Sarah when he closes his eyes, he says: "You don't have a girlfriend, Sherlock," as if he's only just realized.

"Brilliant deduction," Sherlock replies, and he can practically hear John's teeth grating, so he fixes it. "No, it's not really my area, John."

He hears John sit up in his bed, and the room rings with all the thinking going on in John's head.

"Oh. Right." He shifts back down until his head is on the pillow again, chewing at his lip. He's an idiot, he should have known and now Sherlock will think he's a prat. But he's never seen _anyone_ with Sherlock, and now that it's in the open he has to know. "Or a boyfriend."

"John." Sherlock's voice is partly annoyed, but mostly amused.

"What?"

"Shut up."

"Okay." John shifts, and he recognizes the self-righteous smirk in Sherlock's voice, but he still wants this to be right. "It's fine, you know."

"I know it's fine. Shut up and go to sleep."

"Okay," John sighs again, and he does.

* * *

It's two days after Christmas and they're on the train to London. To Chelsea. To Irene Adler. John's pulse is beating in his throat and he can't believe that Sherlock talked him into it, but most of all he can't believe how _thrilling_ it is. Sherlock's eyes gleam like he knows.

"The game is on," he says brightly, and they rush off together into Charing Cross station.

"How are you gonna find where she keeps it? The evidence, I mean." John asks once they're on the District line and standing near the doors to duck their heads together quietly.

"I've been thinking about it since Hogsmeade," Sherlock says, keeping an eye on anyone else in the car who might be listening. "She already knows what I look like, so I'll be needing your help in creating a distraction."

"Oh, you bumped into her once," John breaks in incredulously. "She's not gonna remember—"

"She's clever," Sherlock reminds him quickly. "Don't underestimate your enemy." He thinks about it a moment longer, and the train shifts under them. "I need you to start a fire."

John's eyes go wide. "What?" And he's rather louder than he means, because two of the pensioners nearby peer upward at them. John brings his head in closer to Sherlock's and lowers his volume considerably. "Okay, start again. And include details this time."

"The distraction of a fire will direct her to the place where she is hiding her most valuable possession. She's asking for a lot of money from West, which means she stands to lose quite a lot if she loses that photo. At that point, I'll sneak into the flat and get it out from under her."

The idea of it is positively dizzying, but John finds himself nodding. He was never like this before he met Sherlock, before he knelt beside Jennifer Wilson with a young Slytherin boy and his hands didn't shake.

And it all happens so fast that John is surprised he remembers it at all. They're in Chelsea, the posh section, the high-end place that John really feels he doesn't belong. Rows of mansion-like flats staring back at him, laughing at his Christmas jumper, and it makes his head spin even more. Sherlock ducks into a hedge and John is at the nearest window, and _oh God_ how do you even start a fire without magic?

Then he remembers the Whiz-bangs in his pocket from Harry's Christmas present. Eyes widening, John snatches them up and in proper Weasley fashion, they self-light when they're tossed. John covers his head as the little crackers clatter against the window momentarily before—

The world erupts in fire and sparks, followed by concussive booms that pierce John's eardrums (and a good thing, because they spur laughter from John's lungs that's covered brilliantly by the spontaneous fireworks show). The window cracks inward from the force, and over the sudden shouts of surprise from inside, John cups his hands around his mouth and shouts "FIRE!" And he's unfortunately very right, because the Whiz-bangs have moved in through the window, showering flaming sparks as they ignite again and again in consecutive explosions that set smoke in the Adler sitting room.

John claps those cupped hands over his mouth in shock and nearly misses when Sherlock throws open a window on the other side of the flat and vaults in. Before anyone running into the room now doused in sparks and colorful smoke, John runs for it. He misses everything inside (and damn that part of him that wants to be running through that smoke and chaos with Sherlock to swipe the evidence out from under her nose), but he knows that if he's out in the open any longer, he's going to be caught. He stations himself at the end of the road, and when Sherlock's long-legged stride hits his ears at full run, he nearly bounces on his feet in glee.

On his way rocketing past John, Sherlock doesn't even slow his pace. He simply reaches out, grabs John by the wrist and pulls the Hufflepuff along after him.

"That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done," he wheezes hysterically between his impossible laughter, leaning against the concave wall of the tube platform for support as he catches his breath.

"Me too," Sherlock says weakly around his full-mouthed smile.

It's when Sherlock joins him in breathless laughter that John really loses it, breaking into squealing giggles that really don't befit a boy of his stature. He's sure they look a pair of fools, standing there and laughing themselves silly in the middle of the platform, but neither of them seem to care at all.

John finally quiets himself and stops Sherlock with a hand on his wrist. "Did you find where she keeps it?"

"I've done one better," Sherlock says, smirking. He reaches into the pocket of his long dark coat to fetch something, and he holds a photo up between two of his fingers.

John, his breathing still ragged and his grin still locked in place, takes the photo and examines it. And he takes a moment, but the confused look replaces his smile completely. "Sherlock?"

The Slytherin's smile drops away as well. "What?" He takes the photo back with a jerk, and his mouth drops quietly ajar.

It's Irene Adler, all right. Alone, dressed only in her underthings, in the middle of what John assumes is her own room. And she's blowing a kiss straight at Sherlock, winking broadly. And it's signed in big, curling letters.

_Maybe next time, Sherlock._

John is sure that, at at moment, Sherlock's wide-mouthed shock will explode into rage. He doesn't expect the loud bark of a laugh to escape from Sherlock's lungs. With a happy shake of his head, he rips the fake photo in half and tosses them to the tracks.

"I've never been outsmarted before," he says as if he's in some vague sort of awe.

And John allows himself to relax. "First time for everything, then?" He sighs, and they both lean against the curved wall of the platform. "We're going back, aren't we?" he asks with a weary smile.

"No," Sherlock answers plain enough. "She knows what I'm after—I don't know how, but she _knew_—so it's useless to try again. Back to yours," Sherlock adds with a fruitless shrug.

They don't talk about how they've failed. John asks if he's come up with any leads on whoever had written those notes, and Sherlock says that he's been listening very carefully to the accents of the students, and it's only a matter of time before he narrows down the Sheffield accents from the Leeds accents.

They spend the rest of the rainy holiday in the park outside of town, John swooping on his broom and testing out the new goggles and Sherlock perched under a tree, watching and thinking.

* * *

When they get back to school, Andrew West shakes both of their hands. He tells them he doesn't know how they did it, but Irene Adler is backing off of the blackmail, so long as he doesn't attempt to out her in return. And he doesn't, because he's nothing if not honorable. He attempts to pay Sherlock for his trouble, but he waves it off.

It's as if everything is back to normal. Until Sherlock plunges himself into the proper mystery, the one he says he should have been working on from the beginning.

John always answers when Sherlock sends him an owl. In the middle of the night, when some dark shadow swoops in somehow and drops a note onto his sleeping body, he always shines his wand to the scratchy letters and goes to Sherlock. The latest reads only:

_Library. Could be dangerous. SH_

And John hops wordlessly into his trousers and creeps down darkened hallways in his bare feet until he finds his friend tucked into a lightless corner near the Herbology books.

"What is it?" John asks in a sleepy whisper.

"Leeds," Sherlock hisses back. "I can't tell if it's just another distraction or if I should be focusing all of my brainpower on it."

"Merlin's sake," John sighs. "Go to bed, Sherlock."

"Couldn't possibly," Sherlock replies petulantly. When the Hufflepuff turns to go, Sherlock's voice pitches higher: "John—"

He turns back, takes steps into Sherlock's personal space and stares him down. "I always come, Sherlock. Because I want to help. You know I do. But I've got Quidditch, and Sarah, and I've got no bloody idea how you get your schoolwork in around all this but I've got to do that, too."

And Sherlock has the sort of face that looks like he's been kicked, and he hides it quickly as if he doesn't want John to see. But he has, and he sighs with his whole body before easing into the seat next to Sherlock.

"Okay, so. Leeds."

He misses the honest smile spreading over Sherlock's face, because someone else is in the library with them.

John looks up at the first sign of light and mutters a quick _Nox_ and the two of them are blanketed in darkness. Sherlock's fingers clamp unthinkingly on John's wrist, making sure he's still there, blind reassurance. Everything is heightened (John's suddenly terse breathing in his ear, the sound of three separate heartbeats) but mostly the strange sensation when John's wrist turns under his grip and he laces their fingers together.

All of the sudden Sherlock feels inexplicably _protected_.

Both of them are taken by surprise when Sarah rounds the bookcase and points her lighted wand at them.

"Sarah?" John perks up, but Sherlock tightens his fingers in warning. And John doesn't turn to Sherlock but he knows just what he means. Oh God, her eyes.

"Hello, Sherlock," Sarah says, smiling just as kindly as she does when she's sitting with the both of them in the Three Broomsticks. "_Sweetheart._ You've done such a good job so far. You almost got Adler, didn't you? That's my clever boy."

"Who are you?" Sherlock asks bluntly before John can shout.

"Oh, you're so _silly_, Sherlock," Sarah giggles brightly. "I'd better watch out for myself with such a brilliant... No, you don't like that, do you? Leastways, not from anyone but—" She looks at John, who feels his blood go cold. "But you're close, and I don't appreciate it. If you get too close, someone might just get hurt."

"Leave her alone," John snaps suddenly.

And then Sarah laughs, a loud and terrifying thing. "Oh, John. Johnny-boy, you've never been more wrong."

A moment later, the horrible smile drops off of her face and her eyes are back and brimming full of tears. "John?" Her voice is horribly weak and John's standing to meet her before either of them can say anything else. He's got her, tucking her sobbing face into the crook of his neck and smoothing her hair repeatedly under his palm. When Sherlock stands, John meets his gaze with something that's a mixture of dread and rage.

"We've got to tell McGonagall," John says, holding Sarah close as she shakes like a tiny animal in his arms, whimpering _John what happened?_ into his shoulder. "This can't happen again."

Sherlock is looking at the both of them with an unreadable expression, guarded but vulnerable. He meets John's eyes again. "They didn't do anything about Mary Morstan because they couldn't. It's not that they won't believe you, John. I just don't think they'll do a thing about it."

John fixes Sherlock with a pitiful look, which the Slytherin can't match so he turns his eyes away to his shoes. When he looks back up, John and Sarah are gone, and the library is just as dark as it was before John had come.

He walks Sarah all the way to the Headmistress's office, and she only speaks to mutter the password to the statue ("_Felis catus_."). McGonagall is bleary-eyed and confused, but she waves her wand to set the tea on, ushering still-weeping Sarah into a chair by the fire (which John has lit). The Headmistress looks sadly at the both of them, and finally focuses on John.

"The trouble you two get into, it's a wonder your names aren't Potter and Weasley," she breathes with a shake of her head. "I assume Mister Holmes is coming soon?"

John doesn't know, and so he doesn't answer. "Professor," he begins strongly, kneeling by Sarah's chair. "It was the Imperius Curse again. I know it."

And it's just as Sherlock said. "It's very difficult to tell when a wizard or witch is under the Imperius Curse, Mister Watson. Several trained Aurors failed during the First War, and I don't see how a pair of Fourth Years—"

"Please," John cuts in, feeling hopeless. "They're not trying to hide it, they're taunting us. They weren't Sarah's words, they were from someone else. And he's in the bloody castle, and—" He doesn't finish his own sentence because the stern, motherly look McGonagall is giving him breaks his heart, just a bit. "Isn't there anything we can do to find out who's doing this?"

The Headmistress hangs her head before settling into the second chair. He wonders briefly how old she is, how much longer she'll do the job before something like this will end it.

"Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Mister Watson. I will have a talk with the other teachers in the morning. I won't ask what you and Mister Holmes were doing out this late at night. You go find your partner in crime and send him to bed; I'll make sure Miss Sawyer gets to the Hospital Wing."

When John gets to the bottom of the staircase, Sherlock is there. He doesn't say _I told you so_, or anything at all. John's so glad for that.

* * *

Hufflepuff win their final match of the year against Slytherin. Sherlock doesn't dare sit with his housemates, and it's all the better because when he's sitting with the Hufflepuffs, he's as good as a Badger to them. Once or twice, he even waves the yellow flag he's been given and utters a holler that gets swallowed up by the cheering crowd. He swarms the pitch with them when Carl catches the Snitch, and all of them are so caught up in the excitement that no one notices or cares when John sweeps Sherlock up in his arms for a victorious embrace.

"If Gryffindor loses to Ravenclaw, we're a shoe-in for Quidditch Cup!" John says over the roar of his teammates and housemates. Sherlock doesn't know why, but he's grinning too. "It's our year, Sherlock, I know it!"

"Yes!" Sherlock says, agreeing to anything in this stifling hoard mentality.

He nearly misses the way that Carl Powers's eyes cloud over when they turn to him. But he's Sherlock Holmes, and he rarely misses anything. Even with the crowd screaming in his ear, Sherlock can still hear Carl speak in an eerie voice around his toothy smile.

"Boom boom, Sherlock."

The Slytherin barely has time to react, and he uses it to grab John by the wrists and throw him to the ground. Just as Sherlock dives to meet him, shielding both their heads, the world convulses around them. Every molecule of air goes dry in their mouths at once, and with a concussive blast of fire and heat and pressure, the nearest goal post explodes in blossoming fire. Someone screams, and half the crowd hits the ground alongside them, the other half running and shouting amid the raining fiery debris.

Sherlock and John both fix their gaze across the pitch at the same time, and they immediately recognize the figure striding determinedly toward them. Raising his wand a second time. Grinning.

Moran.

He gets off another spell, the second goal post exploding in flaming wooden splinters into the ground around them. Before he can attack a third time, four stunning spells hit him in the chest, and he's down. Hooch and Flitwick are there, and in the confusion John can't see which of the other teachers have taken him down.

Sherlock's brain is rattled by the explosion, and he hates it, not knowing exactly what he was about to do. He knows he's staring down at John and he has to make sure that John is safe, but all the sound has been sucked from the air by the explosions and it's making thinking very difficult. John's bleeding from the temple where the debris has hit him, but he's gripping back at Sherlock's shoulders from the ground, shaking him, saying something that doesn't matter because _he hurt John_.

The Slytherin is on his feet (why is he wobbling?), wand arm outstretched, staggering toward where Moran is lying spread-eagled on the ground surrounded by teachers, and someone is trying to stop him (by the size of the fingers on his arm, it's Slughorn), but Sherlock still tries to escape the grip. No spells come to mind, and he hates it. Hates that he can't fight back. And then John has his arm, pressing something cold (his hand?) to Sherlock's neck, and the Slytherin is surprised to see his own blood come back on John's hand.

"Oh," Sherlock says. And he doesn't faint in dramatic fashion, but he does need to be helped to the Hospital Wing.

John calls him a git, but he stays with Sherlock until they patch him up.

Moran admits to everything, when he's questioned. Grinning the whole time, Sebastian Moran admits to the poisoning of Jennifer Wilson, the illegal use of the Imperius Curse on Mary Morstan, Sarah Sawyer and Carl Powers. They test his wand, and they find the Unforgivable there, and his fate is sealed. Azkaban.

* * *

When he realizes that it's all over, and so abruptly, John feels oddly bereft. He tries to tell himself that it's for the best, and that the chase has finally ended (he won't admit how much he'll miss it). Sherlock is not so optimistic; he thinks Moran is covering for someone, but he can't say who. He never tells anyone other than John, who tells him to enjoy the break. Even he needs to breathe every once in a while (to which Sherlock dully replies that "Breathing is boring.")

He invites Sherlock to the celebration once they've finally won the Quidditch Cup (Lestrade's last year, and he finally gets a win out of them; he kisses every single one of them on the tops of their heads and Violet says she's seen him crying but no one calls him out on it), but Sherlock shakes his head and returns to his work.

McGonagall rises at the end-of year feast, and she awards twenty points to both John Watson and Sherlock Holmes for their vigilance in the matter. Hufflepuff comes in second, thanks to their Quidditch prowess, but they still haven't snatched the House Cup out from under the Gryffindors. Lestrade has his Quidditch Cup honors, and that's all that he's ever wanted, and John couldn't be happier for him.

It really feels very distant, John thinks, looking across the tables from Sarah's sombre face to Sherlock's and flicking between the two of them. House points, in comparison to Moran and Adler and all the mad things he's done this year. He wonders what it's like to be any of the other students. He wonders what it's like to be bored.

Sitting quietly in the compartment on the train back home, listening to Sherlock and Sarah harmlessly banter, John smiles to himself and knows he wouldn't want to be anyone else.

* * *

AN: OKAY, I THINK IT'S OBVIOUS THAT THIS CHAPTER GOT AWAY FROM ME. I swear, I looked away for one second and it went over 10k words. I have no words for this, I am astonished myself. It's all that nasty plot getting in the way. I really have nothing to say about this, best let it speak for itself. I really really REALLY wanna thank everyone who's been so lovely to me and this fic so far, even if you don't comment I love everyone who reads and favs and alerts. Thanks so much for reading, leave us some love, but most importantly, STAY AWESOME!


	5. Year Five

**.year five**.

June 27th, John's birthday, Sherlock is on his front step with the front page of the Daily Prophet. A terrible familiar face sneers from his palm-wide portrait under the dancing headline: _Moran Escapes In Route to Azkaban_. John pales and yanks Sherlock inside.

"It says he was under guard from six Aurors," John murmurs incredulously around his breakfast. He's the only one awake, so far, and he's not looking forward to explaining his best friend in the middle of their kitchen (especially with his mother's longest-running boyfriend in ages sleeping upstairs). "He's got to 've had help. You don't just escape six Aurors, not one kid. He's barely seventeen, isn't he?" He crunches into another spoonful of cereal and keeps reading. "Trace is gone, how the hell are they gonna find him?"

He glances up to see Sherlock looking plaintively sideways at him, long in thought. He picks briefly at the food that John had thrown together for him. "I can leave if you think I'll be a problem."

"What?" John cuts in. "No, you're not—Of course not, Sherlock. What makes you think that?"

"You're not afraid of your mother's boyfriend," Sherlock begins like he always does, "but you've stood up to him in the recent past and you don't like the prospect of having to do so again. You're not embarrassed of me, but an unexpected guest, even on your birthday, is something you'll have to explain. And your mother liked me well enough on Christmas, but knowing her fickle nature, she'll likely have turned on me as soon as he has. So, you'll get in an argument over having me appear, and, feeling guilty, I'll invite you over to mine instead. So, let's save ourselves the inevitable drama and just come with me before anyone else wakes up."

John smiles, even though anyone else would have been throwing punches. "You brilliant git." Sherlock mirrors his grin embarrassedly, perhaps even without knowing. "Really?"

"Yes, really," Sherlock adds, irritated, and the smile drops from his face, "or else I wouldn't have asked. Get your things, I'll write a note."

"Oh God," John laughs, but he does.

John doesn't look at the note when he comes back down the stairs with his bag, but Sherlock has left it in the open on the dining room table.

_Mrs. Watson, Harriet, and Unnamed Male Party:  
I have appropriated John for the week of his birthday, and he will be well looked-after while he is gone. If you have any questions, I can be reached by owl, and, for emergencies, my family's fireplace is connected to the Floo Network.  
Yours,  
Sherlock Holmes_

The Holmes Estate is rather enormous, especially for John, who gapes appropriately as they walk up the long tree-lined drive. This early, there are still a handful of men and women in the garden doing the trimming and lawn work, and all of them give a bright welcome to Sherlock. One comes trotting down the drive and takes John's bag from him, carting it back up to the house.

John has never been in a manor, and he's not sure if this is one, but it's fabulous no matter what it is. Wide-open and full of echoes, hardwood and marble-tile floors, a curving grand staircase, and he even glimpses an impressive chandelier as Sherlock shows him around the house.

"It's so huge," John says as Sherlock pulls him into yet another room, this one a dusky study full of books and equipment that wouldn't be out of place in Slughorn's office. "But it's completely empty. Where is everyone?"

Sherlock clears his throat. "Large extended family. They only show up on holidays, but they all like to have their room when they get here. You'll have my cousins' room, it's next to mine."

Sherlock sees quite easily that John's embarrassed about something, and it goes to show how well they know each other when John doesn't need Sherlock's prompting to elaborate.

"I couldn't give you your own room at my place," John says quietly, more and more humbled by the lavish surroundings by the second.

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock says instantly. "You live in Guildford, not this useless old place, of course you couldn't give me my own room." He pauses when John meets his eye. "Besides. I like it. Your house."

There's a large painting of a cold-looking man with Sherlock's eyes in the study, the Ministry crest on a hanging fluttering behind him, and he stares domineeringly down at the two of them. Sherlock glares hatefully upward.

"Yours doesn't have a history."

John follows Sherlock's eyes, and when they meet the figure in the painting, the man turns his back. Even John can't miss the emotion brewing inside his friend's eyes. So he touches Sherlock's wrist with two fingers to get his attention back.

"Thanks, mate," he says with a smirk, and he closes his fingers on Sherlock's, who laces them tight.

The room John's staying in is rather small, compared to the rest of the cavernous house. It's been bedecked in Ravenclaw colors, at which Sherlock frowns and he orders the nearest hand to change them. With a flick of the footman's wand, everything goes yellow and black. John gives a laugh and hops down into the warm-honey bed eagerly.

"When do I meet everyone, then?" John asks, cross-legged on the bed and facing Sherlock in the door, who shrugs.

"It's just Mummy and me. Mycroft shows when he wants to, always without warning." The boy grins fiendishly. "He's gotten fat, you know."

"Just the two of you?" John ignored the brotherly jab. "In this big old place?"

"And the help," Sherlock adds dully, crossing to flop horizontally across the bed onto his back beside John. He links his fingers on his chest, looking to the ceiling rather than the boy seated next to him. "My father's dead, too."

John's throat stiffens painfully, but he nods. "You remember yours much?"

"He was a miser, cruel and brutal, and he asked everything of us. I wish that I couldn't remember him." He glances briefly at the drooping look on John's face. "What about you?"

"Not much," John replies, and his throat croaks. He waits a moment to start again. "A good dad, what I can remember. Loads of bedtime stories, one time he tried to make mum breakfast and nearly killed us all with the smoke. He was a Gryffindor, too, like Harry. She was so happy, when she got Sorted. Mum was proud." He smiles a bit. "Your lot were all Ravenclaw, right?"

Sherlock laughs. "You remember that? I thought—"

"Thought what?" John's smile grows on its own.

"I thought you hated me after that." Sherlock's not smiling. Not at all. "Most people do."

"Hey," John interrupts, sitting up off the bed and peering down at Sherlock sprawled all over it. "Shut up." He doesn't move until Sherlock gets it and stops his pouting. "It's my birthday. Where's my cake?"

They make a horrifying mess of the kitchen in attempts to create something similar to a cake. Sherlock calls it an experiment, adds too much flour, and they alienate all four of the cooks in the process, but the end result is at least edible. It's when they're covered in flour and Sherlock is trying to discuss the relative viscosities of the most poisonous potions that John meets Mummy.

Sherlock stands at attention when she enters, and John copies him without thinking. She lingers in the doorway from the garden, looking over the pair of them as a queen might benevolently watch her country. She looks regal enough, with all the gold and pearls on her. Sherlock got his hair form her, for sure, with her dark curls gathered in a careful bun at the back of her head, but her eyes are the softest brown that John has ever seen. And she smiles.

"Sherlock," she says, setting her bag at her feet without taking her eyes from them, "is this John Watson?"

"Yes, Mummy," Sherlock answers. John turns so that he can engage the both of them at once, and he's sure that there couldn't be two more different people in a family tree than Sherlock and his mother.

"I've heard so very much about you, Mister Watson," Mrs. Holmes says as she makes her way to them. "You've done quite a lot for my Sherlock. He doesn't make friends easily, and has a harder time keeping them. You must be a very determined young man, and you have no idea how much I appreciate it."

John tries his best not to giggle at the redness spreading up Sherlock's neck and to his ears. "Yes ma'am, Mrs. Holmes. Very glad to help."

Sherlock wants to elbow him, but the presence of Mummy is clearly a very influential one. So he fidgets on the spot. John hides a grin very badly and tries to make up for it.

"He's brilliant. Never had a better friend."

But Sherlock just goes even redder, and John loses it, breaking into tight laughter that doubles him over. When Mrs. Holmes laughs, it sounds to him like the tinkling of crystal.

"You're more than welcome to stay, Mister Waston. Especially with that Moran character about. And we'll have you a proper birthday once you two have cleaned up."

"She's lovely," John says, toweling his hair dry ten minutes later. Sherlock sits cross-legged on the ground in front of the full-length mirror in his own room (not decorated in Slytherin colors, nor any colors at all, save for the badger pin and the yellow flags accumulated from two years of Hufflepuff matches; John hopes Sherlock isn't trying to hide his House loyalty from him, because he'd be doing a bloody awful job), trying to get his curls to lie flat.

"She's... affectionate," Sherlock amends. "She scarcely leaves me alone in the summer, with Mycroft gone. She clings to me because I'm the last vestige of my father that she has, and despite his obvious deficiencies, she loved him." He frowns at the prospect, pressing his fringe to his forehead in vain.

"Better than ignoring you, I suppose," John says hopefully. Nothing is worse than Sherlock in a mood.

"I suppose," Sherlock answers vaguely. Then, hopping like a feline directly to his feet, he's across the floor and steering John by the shoulders. "Enough cosmic angst for today, we've presents for you."

John doesn't have time to stutter the questions he wants, like how he and his mother could possibly have known before he'd been kidnapped to get gifts for him, because he quickly figures that they had planned this all along. John's mouth isn't sure whether it should frown or grin, settles easily on the latter.

"You utter bastard," he murmurs around his teeth. "You shouldn't have, you know that?"

"Nonsense," Sherlock mutters back, and that's that.

When it comes to John's birthday dinner at the Holmes Estate, Mycroft's inexplicable sudden appearance along with his nameless (to John, anyhow) assistant makes four and himself. They bring out the cake that he and Sherlock had thrown together, missing a piece or two from their taste-tests, and Mycroft's assistant decorates it artfully with a frosting ribbon from her wand.

Mrs. Holmes sings when the lights go out, and only the multicolored candles on his cake illuminate the wide walls of the dining hall. They listen, enchanted, to her voice echo and dance, and when she finishes, John applauds loudest of all (Sherlock leans in to whisper that her hobby had been opera long before she'd met Tiberius Holmes and she went quietly into the Ministry).

From Sherlock's mother, John receives a book of complex and no-doubt useful charms ("Sherlock tells me you're quite the hand at charms, I hope these will help."), and a moleskine from Mycroft that will only display the notes within when the correct password is spoken ("Sherlock will have it figured out within a week, at most, but to everyone else it will appear blank."). Mycroft assures him that the gift is from both him and his assistant—she only laughs when John says a better present would be her name.

Sherlock grins when John turns to him. "Mine's upstairs. Care to fetch it with me?"

John gives a brief glance at their audience, shrugs and follows Sherlock to his room with little protestation. "Couldn't be arsed to drag it downstairs?"

"Your eyes only, John," Sherlock replies cryptically, digging through his bureau. "Aha! Here we are." He produces a letter. And it's been opened. John takes it apprehensively.

"Sherlock, it's got your name on it," he laughs. When he looks up, Sherlock has his fingers perched at his lips, and he nods at the letter. Rolling his eyes, John reaches in and produces a single sheet of parchment.

_Well done, you! Are you bored yet, my sweet? How about you figure this one? Someone has broken into the Headmistress's office. Countdown time, you have until November. And if you can't, I can't assure someone won't get hurt. I get bored too, Sherlock._

John looks up, alarmed. "Moran?"

Sherlock shakes his head slowly, savoring it.

"I got it _three _days ago. While Moran was under twenty-four hour surveillance by six Aurors. No owls could get through that." He looks as though he's won some sort of award, beaming. "This proves it, John."

"Sorry, proves what?" John asks, wary of keeping hold of the note as if it will burst into flame.

He fixes John with the _idiot_ look to save himself the time of having to say it. "That Moran wasn't working alone. That, in all probability, he was a decoy." He taps his fingers together eagerly. "_Clever._ So clever even I missed it. Slightly."

"How is this my birthday present?" He doesn't actually expect Sherlock to get him anything. He just likes seeing the unthrowable Sherlock Holmes thrown.

"Well I— I could get— Well, I thought that you—"

"Keep your pants on," John laughs. "Right, you want me to help with the case. Of course I will. _Idiot_."

John doesn't see the way Sherlock watches the back of his head as they walk in amiable silence down the stairs. Mycroft, however, does.

He can't sleep into the day, unlike Sherlock (who, in the five short days John has been at the Holmes Estate, has slept in til noon and occasionally longer), and so it's nine in the morning and John is lying in bed, hands behind his head and staring at the ceiling, when Mycroft enters the room.

John sits up quickly, startled. Mycroft doesn't so much as blink at the sudden movement. He's carrying a letter. He didn't even knock.

"This just arrived for you by owl," Mycroft says, holding it out to John. The boy apprehensively takes it. It's from Hogwarts. "My congratulations to you, Mister Watson. You were the obvious choice for the position."

He turns the envelope over, because there's something heavy in the bottom of it. A brilliant, shining badge emblazoned with a P falls into his hand, and John gapes openly.

"If I'm correct in assuming," Mycroft continues, "Miss Yao will be your companion. One word of advice, if I may?"

John nods absently, turning the badge over and over in his fingers.

"Don't be lenient on my brother just because he favors you. Respect the position and others will respect you."

John finally looks up and frowns. "You think I'll go easy on Sherlock because he what?"

Mycroft waves it off. "I hear you've also been nominated Quidditch captain. You've quite the year ahead of you, I must say. No doubt Sherlock will persist in his inanities to keep himself busy. Don't let him distract you."

The Hufflepuff frowns even more deeply. He's not quite sure just what Mycroft is trying to get at. "I'll do what I think needs to be done, thanks, Mycroft."

And, strangely, Mycroft smiles as through something John said pleases him, and he nods. "My assistant and I are heading back to London, presently. I'm afraid we'll miss my brother. He does love his queer hours. Good to see you again, John. Best of luck." And then he turns and he's gone.

To his credit, John waits seven whole minutes before he charges into Sherlock's room and leaps onto the sleeping boy's bed to wake him. Sherlock jolts awake with a candid yelp and gathers all the sheets up to his neck, blaring: "_What? What, John?"_

John laughs loud and clear until Sherlock calms down, then spreads his arms wide. "See anything different?"

Sherlock, still rumpled by sleep and slightly frazzled by the interruption, glares blearily at him. "You've not brushed your teeth or hair, even though you've been awake for at least forty minutes, and you've had plenty of time, so you must have been waiting for me to—"

"Christ's sake, Sherlock," John laughs, and he points to the badge on his chest as a hint. "I made prefect! _And_ Quidditch captain! _And_," he continues on despite the wilting look on Sherlock's face, "I'm gonna have to find time to keep you from getting bored. God knows Hogwarts can't survive _you_ with nothing to do."

Sherlock stares at him for a for moments longer than usual. Then, unexpectedly, he asks: "How do you put up with me, John? So few people actually do."

It takes him by surprise, and he's never really thought about it (it was so easy to be his friend, he can't understand why it would be so hard for anyone else, save the constant belittling and the superior ego and okay he can sort of see it now). "Don't know," he answers. "You're never boring." He gives a wild shrug. "Hell, I like you, Sherlock."

The Slytherin smiles slightly. "I like you, too." He straightens his back, finally waking up. "Congratulations. You'll make a fine prefect."

"You didn't get one?" John asks, looking about for a letter with his friend's name on it.

"No, I don't suppose I make a good role model." But he smirks around it. "Breakfast?"

"Starving," John says enthusiastically, and they're off to the kitchen in their pyjamas.

* * *

When John gets back home two days later, he's just in time to see his mother's boyfriend packing his things into his tiny car. His mother is crying on the front step, wordless, hopeless blubbering that's interrupted when Harry charges past her headed for the man and his car, wand raised.

John barely has time to dash across the lawn and stop her—he doesn't know what spell she'd use, but she doesn't have the Trace anymore and it could've been anything, going on the red look of hate in her eyes. She looks as though she wants to turn the man into ash, then set the ashes on fire and throw rocks at the fire, that's the sort of wild thoughts he sees in her face. But John stops her and their mother's ex-boyfriend careens noisily away.

He takes a seat next to his mother. "What happened?"

And then she hits him. Just a weak sort of slap, but that's not why it hurts.

"If your idiot friend hadn't left that fucking note, Andy wouldn't wouldn't have seen it and asked questions, and I wouldn't have to tell him that you're a _fucking wizard!_" she shouts in her tear-raw voice. "Do you know how that sounds to _normal_ people? They think I'm a goddamn nutter!" She glares hard at John and shoves him away roughly. "You two ruin everything!"

It breaks his heart and his stomach churns horribly, but he keeps his resolve (somehow). "Come on, Harry," he says, and to his credit, his voice doesn't waver. "We're going."

Harry looks lost and scared. "What? Going where?"

"I don't care," John says strongly. "Diagon Alley, let's just go."

His bag is already packed, and Harry only grabs a couple things before they leave Anne Watson sobbing and angry on her front step.

Three days later, brooding by the window of the double room above the Leaky Cauldron he's sharing with his emotional big sister on dwindling funds, John gets an owl from Sarah.

_I haven't seen you in ages. Let's have a day out, you and I. We can talk! See you soon, John.  
Sarah S._

He perks up instantly and replies back emphatically YES.

But even walking hand-in-hand through the glittering avenue of Diagon Alley does nothing for them. They smile and they chat, but as they pass by Florean Fortescue's, her finger slip nonchalantly from his, and even though they don't say anything about it, he knows this is over. Whatever this was. And he smiles, but it sits right on top of the stinging mark his mother left on him, and it hurts.

Sarah says she'll see him at school, and she's gone. And John feels useless (especially with Harry downstairs every night, crying into her glass and cursing at him when he tries to help her up the stairs). He feels a bit as though he's coming apart in little pieces, and it's only at night when he remembers that Moran is out there, and someone is sending those horrible notes and threatening his best friend (who made him cake), and then he cries. It's not a pretty thing, curled up in his sheets, stuttering tears and shoving his red face into his pillow so that Harry won't hear him.

The owl comes in the middle of the night and he recognizes it instantly as Sherlock's, so he throws open the window and grapples the letter open as quickly as possible.

_Mycroft says that you are at the Leaky Cauldron, which is perfect for me. Investigation begins tomorrow at ten sharp.  
SH_

John nearly cries again.

Sherlock shows up at the Leaky Cauldron twenty minutes early, lingering awkwardly downstairs and unsure of whether he should start knocking on doors to see which one contains John, and whether he's decided to sleep through their meeting.

His thoughts are interrupted when John appears overhead, practically leaning over the railing and searching the bottom floor for _him_. They lock, and for a moment Sherlock thinks that John is going to propel himself right over the railing. But he just rushes down the stairs, taking the last three at a leap and he practically bowls Sherlock over. He mashes them together for a very long time, shoving his face into Sherlock's scarf and absolutely refusing to budge.

After a moment of blind confusion, Sherlock hangs his hands on John's arms in reply. He makes no attempt to remove John, but he is very unsure what to do with the Hufflepuff in his arms. So he simply asks: "All right?"

John nods, speaking straight into Sherlock's scarf when he answers. "Bad couple of days."

"Obviously," Sherlock says lightly, finally relaxing into the embrace (curling his arms around John's shoulders, pressing the side of his face to John's temple encouragingly). "Someone has been working with Moran, that much is obvious." (And John's not sure why he rather likes that Sherlock doesn't interrupt the case for a hug, or vice versa.) "The handwriting on the latest note matches the handwriting on the notes I received last year, which means it was the associate and not Moran who wrote them. Which means that the old deductions stand: the writer is from Leeds."

"Or Cork," John laughs lightly. And he finally pulls back (Sherlock's hands still resting on his shoulders), looking up at his friend with a puzzled expression. "Funny thing, I was depressed about five minutes ago. How's an investigation do that?"

"It always cheers me up," Sherlock says with a light grin. "There are a fair number of Northern students, less than the number from Ireland—"

"Sherlock," John interrupts. "Isn't there some other case you're supposed to be looking in on? The one from the note?"

"Something stolen from the Headmistress's office," Sherlock recites, rolling his eyes slightly. "Yes, I remember. But unless you think it's appropriate to send an owl to McGonagall in the middle of summer holiday to ask what she's missing, there's no point in investigating that route until we get back to school."

John nods, takes a steadying breath, and smiles. "All right. Where do we start?"

Sherlock starts by pulling out a roll of parchment with three dozen names on it. "I owe Mycroft a favor," he says with a grimace. "I'll need you to write the letters, but use an alias; he knows how close we are." He tosses a ribbon-tied pile of paper at John and climbs up to sit atop the nearest table. John manages to catch it, gives him a strange look, and joins him (in a seat, like a _normal_ person).

"Writing what to who?" John asks. Sherlock produces a quill and an inkpot from his inner pockets and sets them down beside John.

"List of students," Sherlock says, staring off into the distance and pressing his fingertips together. "I don't suppose it matters what you write, as long as you can get them to write back." He peers down from his perch to John's blank expression. "Handwriting, John."

"Oh," he says, and after a pause, he continues. "List of Northern and Irish students, I suppose?"

"Exactly," Sherlock replies. Some of the patrons have noticed the tall boy sitting on the top of the table rather than beside it, but no one seems to be interested in stopping him. "If we can innocuously get these students to reply to your inquiry, we can analyze their handwriting as compared to the notes I already have."

"Brilliant," John murmurs, smirking brightly as he chooses the first slip of paper and dips his quill in the ink. Sherlock glances down at him, smiles slowly, and returns to staring at nothing.

* * *

At the platform, waiting for Sherlock and trying to ignore the pinging in his chest that reminds him that this is the last time Harry will be here with him, John is nearly assaulted by the Hufflepuff Quidditch team. Carl tries to tackle him (still so scrawny, he barely makes an impact on the sturdier boy) and they all start talking at once. How John is perfect for captain, how he and Soo Lin both ended up as prefects, how they'll be needing a Chaser and Keeper this year and they all seem to know the perfect candidates that no one can agree on.

Violet seems to know that John and Sarah are quits, and it's clear that John doesn't want to talk about it. And so the subject of new affections is broached instead. Just as Carl starts to mention the boy that Molly Hooper was seen kissing outside of Greenhouse Two, a familiar Slytherin appears, and no one misses the identical beaming look on both John and Sherlock's faces.

They meet in a warm embrace, and Violet fixes Carl with a light wink.

All of them try to fit into one compartment, giggling and shoving as they try to make room for an entire team plus one pink-eared Slytherin. However, John and Soo Lin are pulled away when the train jolts to a start, away to be trained to be the best prefects they can be. Sherlock stands when John moves to leave (half of the Hufflepuff team tumbling to the empty space he vacates), and he doesn't say anything, but John claps his hand comfortingly on Sherlock's shoulder, turning to his teammates to say: "Take care of him while I'm out."

John goes horrifyingly red in the face when he sees that Sarah Sawyer is Head Girl this year. They lock eyes, and neither of them say anything, and they go about business as usual. He's given his duties for the night: patrol the train, take the First Year Hufflepuffs to the common room (the password is _Murtlap_, and he's sure Sherlock will have it in a few good tries), and to walk the halls to check for curfew-breakers from midnight to one (and John smiles, remember every time he's crawled out of bed to find Sherlock in some dark corner).

They are detained in the prefect car for the rest of the ride, and while everyone else discusses their summer holidays, John wants to do anything but. It's not something he wants to remember. Not most of it, anyhow. Not anything including his sister, his mother, or his ex-girlfriend (was she even?). John stares out the window and thinks about a list of names and all the anonymous letters he sent out this summer.

At the feast, when McGonagall stands to give her speech, she doesn't say anything about a theft from her office. What she does say is that a young man named Sebastian Moran escaped from Auror protection this summer before he could be placed in Azkaban for the Unforgivables that he cast on Mary Morstan, Sarah Sawyer and Carl Powers. She assures the students that she's been given no probable reason that Moran would return to Hogwarts, but there has been an increase in border security nonetheless. Aurors will be posted in Hogsmeade, and they will be commanding a total of four Dementors who will only be used against Moran in a situation of last resort. They will be of no threat to the students (and John knows all about the problem Hogwarts'd had with Dementors in the recent past; everyone who's anyone knows everything about Harry Potter), but curfew has never been more important, and students are not to travel alone anywhere outside the castle.

On his way to the dormitory, John wonders if he ever looked as small as the little First Years following him do. He walks backward as he talks, instructing them on the password, where they'll be sleeping, what time to wake up if they want breakfast, and which of the fruit to tickle on the enormous painting that will lead them into the kitchen if they're feeling peckish after hours. At this angle, he can't see Sherlock until he runs full-bodied into him, knocking the air out of the both of them. The First Years giggle quietly.

"Sherlock," John says in surprised. "How... How'd you get here before me?"

The Slytherin shrugs noncommittally. "Have you any letters yet?"

"Kind of in the middle of something, Sherlock," John laughs. "Come on." He places a hand between Sherlock's shoulder blades and guides him along the hallway with the parade of new Hufflepuffs.

At the still-life, he gives Sherlock a pointed stare, and, flushing embarrassedly, Sherlock announces "Murtlap," and the painting swings open. A couple of the First Years seem shocked, but John knows better by now. He sees them to their dorm and finally rejoins Sherlock in the common room.

"Here," John says, throwing three letters into Sherlock's lap as he sits by the fire waiting for John. The Slytherin eagerly unfolds the first one, and immediately dismisses it by tossing it into the fire. John's eyebrows shoot up, and he takes a seat on the floor beside Sherlock's chair.

"Is this all?" Sherlock asks, analyzing the second letter more thoroughly than the first, then throwing it into the fire as well.

"Well, yeah, so far," John answers. "Not everyone's gonna write back just because you want 'em to, y'know."

Sherlock pouts. Runs his eyes over the third letter and does away with it. "Useless." John's face falls slightly, and with a sigh Sherlock corrects himself. "Not you, idiot. People."

"And I'm not? People, that is?"

The Slytherin offers a lopsided smirk. "No. Not even slightly."

"I'll take that as a compliment. So, when are we going to see McGonagall?"

"That depends on when you schedule your Quidditch try-outs," Sherlock answers. He grins even wider at John's shock. "I'm not an immovable force, John. I can work around your minutiae. When are you patrolling the halls?"

John takes it all in stride, but he's sure that he can't hide it from Sherlock. "Midnight. If I find you out and about, I can take away House points."

"Oh, don't worry. I'll find you." He grins just briefly, stands and places his hand atop John's head as he passes behind him, disappearing through the portrait hole with a hop in his step.

John watches until he's gone, and when he turns back there's a First Year girl seated in Sherlock's chair and staring at him.

"That boy's a Slytherin," she says, swinging her legs.

"Yeah he is," John replies, crossing his arms like a stern parent. "Is that a problem?" She opens her mouth, but John keeps going. "Because you're a Hufflepuff, and Hufflepuffs don't care where a person comes from or what they look like."

"I didn't even want to be in Hufflepuff," she says moodily.

"Neither did I," John assures her, smiling proudly. "But just wait. Hey, what's your name, then?"

"Lucy," she replies.

"Nice to meet you, Lucy. I'm John. And that was Sherlock, my best friend."

* * *

John feels incredibly nervous. It's Thursday the first week of classes, it's snowed early, he's freezing and in full Quidditch gear. And he's the goddamn Quidditch captain and it's just now hitting him. But somehow it doesn't show, it doesn't translate to his eyes or hands or grin, and he practically bounces in place when the Hufflepuffs arrive for try-outs. Six Hufflepuffs and one Slytherin.

John dutifully hands over the four letters he received that week, and Sherlock takes a seat on the bench as John shoves off into the air with the potential Chasers. It feels like ten thousand years since he was a nervous Second Year gripping a borrowed broom and knocking the Quidditch captain off his broom on his second swing. This time, _he's_ nearly knocked off his broom by an unwieldy flier who apologizes in tears afterwards when she's back on the ground (and despite the one foul-up, John thinks this Amanda girl will be an ideal candidate).

He jots some notes down in the notebook Mycroft gave him for his birthday, and he can see Sherlock eyeing it from the bench, pretending (badly) when John peers at him that he hasn't been looking. The Slytherin rises abruptly to his feet and is at John's side in an instant (and he's always ignored personal space, but more so recently than ever).

"I didn't bring my samples down to the pitch with me," Sherlock murmurs, holding up one of the letters John had given him. "I thought I had memorized the handwriting well enough, but this one is close. I need the previous letters for closer examination. Might we stop by the dungeon before we head up to see the Headmistress?"

Something in John balks (staring down Anderson and his thugs in the hallway, it still sticks with him when it shouldn't), but he nods. "Yeah, of course."

Sherlock leads John through the Slytherin common room without giving a second look to any of the faces that peer up from their work. There's Anderson and his thugs, glaring hot death at John (it seems that their memory of the event was just as raw as it is for him) and John picks up his pace to linger closer to Sherlock. He brushes through the crowds of green-and-silver boys and girls, and they part for him (no one wants to touch him, like he's contagious, and a line of sniggers following in their wake).

Beside Sherlock's bed, when he reaches under the mattress for the writing samples, he whispers to John: "Ignore the brigade of idiots, John. They don't matter."

He wants to hug Sherlock right then and there, but it certainly won't help the fact that everyone's staring. So he nods. Sherlock folds the letters together and sticks them into his pocket, and then they're off.

This time, John glares right back at them. They're the ones who can't keep eye contact. He feels much better after that.

He looks both ways down the hallway in front of the Headmistress's office to be sure no one else will hear the password ("_Panthera pardus_"), and they ride the stairs upward.

McGonagall gives a withering sigh when she opens the door to reveal the pair of them. "I should have known it would be the two of you. I take it you know, then?"

"Someone's been in your office," Sherlock says plainly. "May we come in?"

"It's not your place to investigate my personal belongings, Mister Holmes," McGonagall says, slightly scandalized. "I can assure you that I have someone looking into the matter."

"Please, Professor," John says, and without asking he's in Sherlock's pocket and he pulls out the handful of letters. Sherlock stutters out some sort of protest, but John speaks over it, holding out the note outlining the theft. "Someone wants us to do this, and it looks like it's serious. We don't know who it is, yet, we're working on that—"

"John!" Sherlock hisses in hopes of stopping the boy from revealing everything, but the Hufflepuff doesn't listen.

"—_but_ I don't want anyone getting hurt over this."

McGonagall fixes both of them with a penetrating stare and, after a moment of contemplation, moves aside so that the both of them can join her. "May I see the letter, Mister Watson?"

He hands it over, holding Sherlock back with his other arm when the Slytherin attempts to subtly snatch it back in the transition. Sherlock pouts instead, thumping into an armchair by the fire as John and McGonagall examine the note.

She looks gravely over her spectacles at John once she's read it through three times. "Mister Watson, it looks as though you've had previous correspondence with whoever it was who wrote this letter. I feel as though you haven't trusted me with everything."

He looks over his shoulder at Sherlock, who is glaring hot daggers at him. He continues nonetheless. "Only a few notes. Whoever it is, he's more interested in playing this game with Sherlock than anything else. We don't know for sure if he's the one who broke in—"

"He isn't," Sherlock snipes from the chair.

John blinks more than is necessary, then turns back to McGonagall. "Well, okay, so he knows that someone broke in and stole something, and if we don't find out someone could get hurt. Sherlock thinks that whoever's writing these notes was working with Moran—" Sherlock makes a displeased noise and hides his face in his hands, "—so I think we should take this threat seriously."

McGonagall nods slowly. "Thank you for deciding to let your Headmistress in on this, Mister Watson."

"What did they steal?" Sherlock cuts in. McGonagall presses her lips together. "Come now, we've told you everything, do put a little faith in us, Headmistress," he continues almost chidingly.

She sighs, defeated, and removes her spectacles to rub her eyes wearily. "A Time-Turner."

"Interesting," Sherlock mutters into his steepled fingers. He sweeps his eyes over the room (so cluttered with the knicknacks of Headmasters and Headmistresses of old, books upon books upon books), and focuses again on her. "Where was it kept?"

She shows him the small box in the magically-locked trunk under the floor under the lunascope, and he inspects it minutely before he nods once.

"Thank you, Headmistress. We'll be in touch." And then he whirls away and disappears through the door. John makes a gaping apology and thanks her profusely before he takes the notes back and trots after Sherlock.

"You didn't have to give away our every move, John," Sherlock cracks lightly once they've reached the bottom of the stairs from McGonagall's office.

"I just thought we'd get more for our trouble if we were honest with her," John replies, slightly terse. Why is Sherlock so upset?

"Because now we don't have a hand to play if we need more from her," Sherlock spits, reading John's mind.

"Someone could get hurt!" John shouts, throwing his arms up hopelessly. "Don't you even _care_?"

"Will caring about them help them?" Sherlock growls.

"No," John answers tersely.

"Then I'll continue not caring about them and keep working on what matters: solving the case so that it _doesn't happen_." He briefly takes in John's heated, open expression, and it dawns on him. "I've disappointed you."

"Yep," John snaps. "Brilliant deduction."

"I told you not all heroes come from Gryffindor when I was eleven years old," Sherlock says carefully. "I've come to learn that they don't exist, and I'd hoped that you'd finally come to the same conclusions. So _don't_ make me into one, John, because I'm really not." He turns, tucking the letters back into his pocket. "Now, since we know what we're looking for—"

When he turns his head to speak to John, all he sees is his friend's quickly-retreating back stomping in the opposite direction.

* * *

The first practice with the new recruits (Amanda cries again when she found she'd made Chaser, and the Third Year Andy Galbraith was the only one to try out for Keeper, so it's his), John has a hard enough time getting the new kids to focus, and they really get little more done than making sure Amanda doesn't knock anyone else off their brooms.

John is very aware that it's a week and two days since he's spoken to Sherlock, but he is purposefully ignoring it (just the way he purposefully ignores the gray eyes watching him across the Great Hall every morning). Sitting atop his broom and watching the Chasers try to coordinate their movements, John is definitely not thinking about the missing Time-Turner, the letters still coming in (which he bundles up and sends off to Sherlock without a word), or the looming threat of Moran's associate still at Hogwarts somewhere.

He gets an owl, and he nearly doesn't read it. But when he sees Sherlock's scratchy handwriting, he decides that he never was all that angry in the first place. So he opens the note.

_When you are ready, I've found two young men who were seen in Knockturn Alley in June when the Time-Turner went missing. I would like you to come with me to see them. One of them is a Ravenclaw, and I will not suffer that door knocker one more time, so we must catch him at lunch. If you forgive me, I will meet you outside the kitchen at noon sharp.  
SH_

John shakes his head, doesn't realize that he's smiling, and heads off to meet Sherlock early.

He drops down into the seat beside Sherlock at the end of the Slytherin table—they always afford him a wide berth. And now John isn't afraid of them, ignoring the scandalized looks they fix on him (because the only look that matters is the surprised, brightening smile in gray eyes).

"Okay, so," John begins without introduction, "Knockturn Alley?"

Sherlock practically glows. "Well, obviously, if you've got your hands on an expensive, rather rare magical item, you're either going to keep it for yourself or you plan on selling it. In the week or so you've been ignoring me—" (and John doesn't have to be a genius to see that Sherlock's been counting the days just like he has.) "—I've been keeping careful track of the inventory of our fellow students." Before John can ask how, Sherlock reveals the spyglass he'd got at Christmas two years ago. "It can sense a powerful enchantment when it's been placed on an object; mostly it's been picking up nothing, save for Molly Hooper's Remembrall. So, no expensive or powerful enchanted items like a Time-Turner on any of the students."

"Who's to say it wasn't a teacher?" John asks, leaning in.

Rather than correcting him, Sherlock grins slowly. "I considered it. I looked into the teachers most likely to need a Time-Turner, or the money."

"Sherlock, have you been doing _any_ schoolwork?" John asks, and he's laughing, and Anderson sneers somewhere up the table. "At this rate, you'll be getting all Trolls. You _do_ remember we've got the O.W.L.s this year, right?"

"Plenty of time for that later," Sherlock waves him off. "We're on a countdown for this one, remember. _So_, the obvious conclusion is that whoever broke into the Headmistress's office intended to sell the Time-Turner right off."

"Sherlock," John interrupts again, and he lowers his voice this time. "The Time-Turner was the only thing stolen. There's plenty of stuff in that office you could make a pretty galleon off of, but they went right for the Time-Turner. Like they knew where it was."

"Or someone told them." Sherlock's eyes go wide, and suddenly he's standing. "Our mysterious friend has his hand in this. Come on, John, we need to interrogate a Ravenclaw." And he dashes across the Great Hall, his loyal Badger following.

The boy they intercept is a year under them, a rather large Ravenclaw with close-cropped hair and he has a puzzled expression when he's cornered by a Slytherin and a Hufflepuff.

"Brian Lukis," Sherlock begins. "Why were you in Knockturn Alley this June?"

And Lukis pales just as John opens his mouth to amend. "Sherlock, that's not—Hi, I'm John, and this is Sherlock—"

"You're a prefect," Lukis notices quickly, eyes darting to the pin on John's robes. "Am I in trouble?"

"Depends on why you were in Knockturn Alley," Sherlock persists.

"I... I have Arithmancy," Lukis protests, trying to edge away. John nearly jumps from his skin.

"Hell!" he intones harshly. "Sherlock, I've got Herbology and I haven't even got my gloves," and he starts to move away, and Lukis takes the opening to bolt up the staircase. Sherlock is left at the foot of the stairs, frowning at the both of them.

He reaches into his bag, pulls out John's notebook and flips open to the first apparently empty page. "Sarah Sawyer." Nothing happens. Sherlock frowns more deeply and shoves the notebook back, taking off up the stairs after Lukis.

It's late and the castle is dark and quiet save for the footsteps of a prefect and the whispers of his companion.

"Look," John mutters, "I'm sorry about running off, but I can't afford to do badly on these O.W.L.s." When Sherlock doesn't say anything, he continues. "Did you get anything off Lukis?"

"Yes," Sherlock says almost blandly. "He's a regular smuggler."

"What?" And he's loud enough to wake the witch in the nearest painting, and she squawks and grouses at him. "Sorry," he winces and turns back to Sherlock. "So, he stole the Time-Turner?"

"No," the Slytherin replies, and he smiles when Felicia appears around his ankles. "But he _has_ been sneaking Boomslang skin from Slughorn's stores and selling it in, yes, Knockturn Alley."

"Well, then, if he didn't do it, who did?"

"Lukis is only one of a ring of runners for a greasy pawn shop in Knockturn Alley. We need to talk to Eddie Van Coon."

"Who's he?"

"A Slytherin, Third Year. Father's a banker, works with goblins, so I've no idea why he'd need the money." He seems mostly frustrated that someone doesn't fit into one of his neat little niches of human understanding. "But he was in Knockturn Alley the same time as Lukis. He clearly doesn't have it on him, so he's either already sold it or has it stored somewhere safe."

"How could you possibly know where these kids were this summer?" John interjects incredulously.

Sherlock grimaces. "Mycroft. I've had to promise that I won't leave Mummy alone on holidays anymore." He glances at John. "You're invited, by the way. To Christmas."

They let the pleased silence sink in. John holds his lit wand around corners and into empty classrooms while Sherlock walks alongside him (shortening his stride so that he won't overtake the shorter boy).

"That book your mum got me," John says after long quiet minutes. "It has a whole section on the Patronus Charm."

Sherlock eyes him, reads him. "There are Dementors near the castle this year to intercept Moran if he appears, and you think that it would be in out best interest to learn how to fend them off?"

"Well. Yeah." He doesn't know why he feels embarrassed when Sherlock fixes him with that stare. "It's a pretty useful spell, I don't see why we can't at least try it out."

Sherlock's quiet for some time. "It's nearly November. It can wait 'til holiday."

"Yeah, okay," John says, and the weight in his chest comes back. "What d'you want me to do?"

The tall boy smiles. "How do you feel about a bit of espionage?"

John catches on quickly. "Sherlock, the Slytherins hate me enough as is, who knows what they'll do if they catch me rooting through some bloke's dirty clothes."

"Don't worry, I've a distraction in mind."

"Bloody hell," John sighs. But he agrees.

Sherlock's idea of a distraction is a flock of angry doxies. They buzz the Slytherin common room, defying any spells thrown at them, and in the confusion John slips into the Slytherin dorms.

He nearly leaps out of his shoes when he runs into a small Slytherin, hardly catching his breath when he realizes who it is.

"Jimmy," he breathes. "Thought you were—Never mind. You know Van Coon?"

"Oh yes," Jimmy says helpfully, a smile cracking on his face. "Has he done something naughty?"

John shifts his eyes to the commotion in the common room, then back to Jimmy. "Maybe. That's what I'm trying to find out."

"Great," Jimmy beams. "Can I help?"

"Sure, if you can show me where Van Coon sleeps."

They dig into Van Coon's trunk, under his mattress, through the drawers by his bedside and they find absolutely nothing that ever had been or would be a Time-Turner. Jimmy gives a fruitless shrug and dashes away to allow John his escape. Ducking past the still-swooping doxies, John leaves the dungeon and doesn't see Sherlock until that night in the Hufflepuff common room.

"Detention," Sherlock says, dropping into his usual chair by the fire (the Badgers seemed to have cordoned it off just for him, and on the occasion a First Year will unthinkingly sit there, they're shooed off by an elder before Sherlock can find it usurped). "Wednesday night, cleaning the Potions classroom floor _and_ all of the cauldrons. I have a distinct feeling that Professor Slughorn doesn't much care for me." He sighs dramatically, turning until his head is hanging from the seat of the chair and his long legs dangle in the air over the top. "What did you find in Van Coon's things?"

"Nothing," John says disappointedly. "He hasn't got it anywhere in the dorm, Jimmy and me looked everywhere."

Sherlock presses his fingertips together, placing them thoughtfully at his lips. "I wonder what our mysterious friend will accept for our having solved the case. I mean, it's obvious that Van Coon is the culprit, but will the solving of the puzzle hinge on our returning the Time-Turner to the Headmistress?"

"You'd better find out soon," John warns. "We've only got a couple days left, Sherlock."

He nods absently, and he remains stationary through the rest of the night, watching John study diligently and not saying another word.

* * *

The morning of October 29, John receives a letter from a small owl he doesn't recognize. He jumps up from the table with a look of horror in his eyes, catching the attention of the students sitting near him. He outright ignores the staring and sprints full-speed across the Hall to the Slytherin table. Bright, curious gray eyes snap up when he arrives, and the dread in John's quickly passes to them.

"What is it?" Sherlock asks gravely. John hands over the letter without comment.

_Very clever, with the letters from your loyal little dog, Sherlock. I like your style, but I don't like how you're ignoring my little puzzles. I feel like you don't really appreciate what I'm doing for you. Aren't you missing one of your little Badger friends?_

Sherlock reads it again three times as John's eyes frantically scan the Hufflepuff table.

His throat is tight when he croaks: "Oh my God, where's Carl?"

Sherlock stands, but John is already back across the Hall amongst the Hufflepuffs, ducking from one head to another (_Where's Carl? Have you seen Carl? Carl Powers, Fifth Year, scrawny kid—He's our Seeker for God's sake, you don't know Carl Powers? Has anyone seen Carl?_) and now the entire table is beginning to murmur and wonder and worry. No one's seen Carl since curfew last night. John hardly registers when Sherlock joins them, and it's the Slytherin that guides John up to the head table to report Carl missing.

Classes are cancelled. Every available teacher and prefect (and Sherlock Holmes) is out looking for Carl Powers, from the dungeon to the Astronomy Tower. Hagrid the groundskeeper and his enormous hound search the Forbidden Forest, someone wrangles the merfolk into searching the lake, and McGonagall herself sets out to Hogsmeade to see if he's skived off.

Trelawney finds him. He's fifteen years old and still scrawny enough to be carried up from the greenhouses by the willowy Divination teacher. Her tears reflect in her thick glasses, and when she hands him over to Professor Slughorn, she breaks down into pitiful tears. John isn't there to see it, he and Sherlock are still searching the kitchens. When McGonagall's voice comes over the announcement system for every student to gather in the Great Hall, John loses all strength in his knees and falls loosely against the nearest wall. It takes Sherlock two tries to convince him to move.

Because Carl Powers is dead.

They've thrown Slughorn's robes over him, and he looks even tinier, dwarfed by the Great Hall. The Hufflepuffs crowd together, encircling one another, and Sherlock is there (not a thing shows on his face, but there's nothing that can pry his fingers from John's at that moment). McGonagall orders the Heads of House and prefects to escort everyone to their dormitories, and the rest of the day is cancelled. John does as he's told with forced stoicism (and when he and Sherlock separate, there's almost a sort of static left on him where Sherlock's fingers had been curled).

It's only hours later that Sherlock sneaks out of the dungeon and up several flights of stairs to the prefect's bathroom (it's child's play to guess the password) to find John.

He's curled up and weeping in a discreet corner, but everything in here is caverned and echoes and multiplies the sound of John's hoarse sobs like there are ten of him. Sherlock goes to his knees to reach him on the floor, and when John sees him, he cuts off all noise immediately and tries to wipe all the emotion away. It doesn't work. It's the closest he's ever been inspected by Sherlock, the tight, wordless scan of his eyes all over John's face and taking it all in. John sniffles piteously, ready for whatever scathing remark Sherlock is planning for his emotional wreck of a state.

But Sherlock doesn't say anything. He just closes his eyes and presses his forehead to John's. That's all. John breaks in an instant, breaking down again into harsh sobs. He digs his fingers into Sherlock's robes for purchase, keeping him close and keeping them connected. Sherlock doesn't say a thing, only stays.

After what feels like ages, John opens his eyes to find Sherlock watching him. "All right?" Sherlock asks. And Sherlock never asks a question he doesn't want to know the answer to.

John somehow keeps another sob trapped in his chest. "No. Really no, Sherlock." He replies weakly. But he gives a feeble grip at the back of Sherlock's neck. "Thanks."

McGonagall calls off all Quidditch until after Christmas holiday (and it's just as well, because on top of everything else, John has to find a new Seeker somehow, and there's a long, stabbing pain in his heart every time he even thinks about it), and he can't even bring himself to schedule practice—and no one blames him, especially not the team, who have all been seen punctuating the silence with quiet crying.

Someone says that he was drowned. Water in his lungs, all the classic signs. But he was found in one of the greenhouses, so far from water that it couldn't have been an accident. Only Sherlock and John know that it was a warning, and that their mysterious friend really isn't friendly in the least.

They don't get another letter, and no one comes to them under the Imperius Curse, and they don't even think about the anonymous letters sent out over the summer (John outright burns them when they come in, now). They just sit alone together in the Hufflepuff common room (a place usually so lively and warm suddenly turned cold like stone), studying and reading, and very occasionally fitting their fingers together in blind, wordless comfort without even lifting their eyes from their work.

Two days later, John nearly assaults his newest Chaser. Because she's wearing something gold around her neck and when she pulls it out to show Soo Lin, John knows it's the Time-Turner. He grabs her by the arm and demands to know where she got it, and Soo Lin fixes him with a horrified stare.

From her boyfriend Eddie, Amanda tells him, wide-eyed and shocked. She doesn't even know what it is, just that it's quite pretty and it's from him. He shouts abuse at her (Christ, this was what he and Sherlock had gone through hell for, the reason that Carl died) until he convinces her to hand it over.

He fights back back stubborn tears when he hands it over to McGonagall, and the amazing woman she is, she lets him stay with her the rest of the day, drinking tea and eating biscuits in quiet solitude.

* * *

"It's going to be horribly depressing," Sherlock says dully as they ride the train back to London. John's only half-listening, but he turns his head anyway.

"What is?"

"Christmas dinner," the Slytherin continues. "You won't like my family. Chances are they won't much care for you. No offense."

"Used to it," John answers with a long-suffering smile finally blooming. Sherlock savors it, mirrors it. "Your mum likes me well enough."

"Most of the family takes after Mycroft," Sherlock replies. "There's outright maliciousness in those genes."

"Never would've guessed," John says, and he's looking right at Sherlock this time. And for the first time in months, they laugh.

Sarah sees them at the platform when they leave the train, catches John in a tight friendly hug and tells him how sorry she is. For Carl, for them, for everything, and she wants them to be friends. To stay in touch. She gives both John and Sherlock a brief kiss on the cheek before she dashes off, and both of the boys watch her go in something akin to shock.

It's snowed at the Holmes estate. It looks even more grand coated in a sparkling layer of white, and John grins around a cloud of smoke from his mouth as he takes it in. Sherlock fits his scarf even more tightly, hunching into himself to stay warm. John resists the temptation to throw Sherlock into the snow to see what he does.

He's heard stories of how huge the extended Holmes family is, but nothing prepares John for the zoo of people who stand in the once-empty hall (all of them stately, all but the youngest, who cavort back and forth around the ankles of the adults). None of them have Sherlock's piercing eyes, but all of them seem to look down their noses at John very much like Mycroft. Complete with the false smile and off-handed arrogance. John politely smiles and bobs (he feels so separate from them it almost doesn't matter anymore, they in their fitted suits and dresses, he clinging to last year's pilling Christmas jumper and jeans with a hole ready to break through the left knee).

Sherlock steals him away up the stairs as quickly as he can. They lean together on the banister to peer down at the world that doesn't want them (and they never want). "I could spit on them from here," Sherlock mutters, leaning into John. The shorter boy gives a light laugh.

"If you can get it in their champagne, I'll give you a galleon."

He doesn't, but he appreciates that John is with him.

With all of Sherlock's relatives crowding into their myriad rooms, John has to share with Sherlock after all. They don't have any air mattresses, but there's a stuffy little divan in the corner. Sherlock offers to take it (Sherlock's bed is enormous; John wouldn't be surprised if it could fit an entire Quidditch team). He knows by now that it's better not to argue with Sherlock, because the boy could hold a grudge and he was used to getting his way. So he throws his bag onto the bed and sinks into it.

"You don't have to come down, if you don't like," Sherlock says, perched at the foot of the bed.

"I can talk to your mum, if nothing else," John says, propping himself up on his elbows. "Or you, if I have to."

"Idiot," Sherlock says with a growing smirk.

"Arse," John replies.

Everyone expects the boys to dress up for dinner. John hasn't bothered to change. Sherlock borrows one of his jumpers (too short in the arms, and it's perfect) so they match. They giggle into their foie gras and everyone avoids them for the rest of the night (just the way they want it). They spend the majority of the night after dinner dodging in and out of rooms in avoiding the littlest children, who find poor John incredibly interesting.

John bolts awake in the middle of the night, sweating and heaving for breath, and he knows he's been crying. It wells up somewhere in his throat, he chokes it back down once, but it's not going anywhere. All he can see when he closes his eyes is the overlarge cloak draped over Carl. His very first morning at Hogwarts and the big smile Carl Powers fixes him with. _We Badgers 've got to stick together_.

Sherlock is awake. Seated by the window, staring out across the snowy garden, and the silver light catches him at all angles. He breaks into a million fuzzy pieces when John blinks and his tears come back. Sherlock turns noiselessly to him, and once John has cleared his eyes, there's something perched between Sherlock's chin and shoulder. He doesn't say a word, just moves the bow lightly over the strings, and a careful, quiet song drifts through the room. So quiet it's remarkably easy for John to fall back asleep.

"Thanks, Sherlock," he murmurs into the pillow, and he's gone in moments.

Sherlock naturally denies it in the morning, insisting John is a very creative dreamer. He doesn't say a thing about the violin perched beside the window, just smirks privately.

The whole family is gone by the time Christmas morning rolls around (all of them off to do some important piece of work for the world) save for Sherlock and Mummy. The Christmas tree is remarkably tall and gorgeous, and John practically fits under it. He hands over the package wrapped in the Daily Prophet, and Sherlock does the same. Mrs. Holmes gives them a curious look, but they're far beyond explaining tradition at this point.

John unwraps Sherlock's first, and he gives a bright laugh. It's a miserable-looking jumper, looking a bit like an ugly orphaned puppy. Sherlock laughs even brighter when he unwraps his and it's the ugliest scarf he's ever seen. They wear them immediately. Mrs. Holmes doesn't quite understand, but she gets her own Christmas present when she quietly watches the two of them, heads ducked close together over John's Charms book. Because the look in Sherlock's eyes is something every mother wants for her children.

They don't talk about Moran, or his unnamed associate, or Carl Powers (though sometimes John still finds himself jolting awake and wiping his eyes and listening to the violin for long stretches of the night). He was sure Sherlock would have been thoroughly bored without the puzzles, the running, the adventure. But he seems almost content, pouring over books and spells.

When he's alone, Sherlock flips John's notebook open to the first page, stares it down and practically shouts "Violet Hunter!" Nothing happens. He's casually returned it to John's bag by the time the Badger returns.

* * *

Hogwarts seems a more somber place when they get back, but somehow John feels better after the long holiday at the Holmes Estate. He holds mid-season try-outs for a new Seeker (he ends up putting Second Year Alex Woodbridge at Keeper and moving Andy Galbraith to Seeker), and the first few practices go off with little hitch. It's not the team they had last year, and John's sure that Quidditch Cup is out of the question, but they might be able to beat Slytherin (who's had to replace all of their Chasers and he's seen them try to fly in formation).

Their first match is against Ravenclaw (they'd have played it in November, but John still feels his throat seize up every time he thinks about Carl). A week from now. Everyone has the jitters, and Amanda is still skittish around him. His team is green, and he's a knot of raw nerves as game day approaches, and Sherlock can't help but notice. So, he suggests a break.

They bundle themselves up and practice the Patronus Charm in the white courtyard. _Your happiest memory_, John stresses again and again when Sherlock gets frustrated after seven tries and gets not so much as a wisp. He threatens to snap his wand in half if he can't get it right on the next go. John rolls his eyes and crunches through the snow right up to him.

He stands behind Sherlock, reaching around to place his fingers atop Sherlock's, speaking into his friend's shoulder. "You've got the movement almost down, just—" And Sherlock lets John control his wand hand because... he doesn't know why, but it's enough to spur just the right sort of memory (he's twelve years old and John Watson sits down with him and tells him that he's brilliant, and he's never had a friend before but John Watson is his friend).

"_Expecto patronum!_" Sherlock announces, and in a flash, a bright silvery creature bursts from his wand and circles playfully around them. The badger disappears almost as soon as it came, and John erupts in a cheer (Sherlock joins him, and his ears are red from the cold, certainly).

It's biting cold and lightly snowing in early January when they finally get on their brooms against Ravenclaw. John sees Sherlock to the Hufflepuff section before the match, and Sherlock doesn't say _good luck_, but he thinks it. Very hard. And John can read it in his face by now.

He snaps the goggles over his eyes and shoves off at the whistle.

Within the first three minutes of the game, the snow has gone almost full blizzard, and it's only because of the goggles Sherlock had given him that John can see at all. The bludgers are tiny black dots on a white background, and Amanda nearly flies into him twice. He smacks a bludger at Ravenclaw's Seeker and she nearly flies off her broom with a yell.

He wonders if he'll be able to tell when someone catches the bloody Snitch.

John is sure he imagines the bright red bolt that zooms by him on the left. He's not so sure when he sees it again. He dares a single glance over his shoulder, and there's a Chaser right on his tail. Ravenclaw, _Clara._ She disappears when John banks a wide corner and loses her in the snow. Couldn't be, that looked like a stunning spell.

Then something explodes by his ear and suddenly every nerve in his body jumps to attention. _Clara is attacking him_. He looks again over his shoulder and he narrowly ducks under the red bolt before she sends another after him. He shouts over his shoulder at her, but the wind sweeps the word from his lips as soon as he utters them.

Someone is blowing the whistle, trying to stop the game, but Clara won't stop. So John dives, heading for the ground to where he might be able to fight back, stop her, get someone else to stop her. Because falling off his broom, stunned, all the way in the air is exactly what he doesn't want to happen. But she follows. Speeds up, goes into a kamikaze roll after him and collides with John midair. They fall a paltry twelve feet.

When they hit the ground together, an agonizing white-fire pain stabs in John's left shoulder and he can't help the lung-bursting cry that feels like it comes up from his toes. There's something in his shoulder, splintered, the worst pain he's ever felt in his life. Clara is limp and unresponsive when Madame Hooch drags her off of him, and someone tries to lift John but he gives another horrible shout and paws hopelessly at his shoulder—

Her wand. It's her wand, stabbed right into his shoulder. The painful tears in the corners of his eyes spill over when he clamps his eyes shut and rolls his head back in the realization, and the entire Hufflepuff team crowds around, shrieking and following all the way back to the castle when they cart him off on a stretcher.

Pomfrey yanks the wand out of his shoulder with little warning, and Violet is there to squeeze his hand when he gives another tight yell. But it's out (save the splinters that Pomfrey tweezes from the wound one by one), and now John has a stinging potion working on the ugly open wound, and it hurts long after the last of his teammates has trickled away into the darkness.

(Someone, he thinks it's Professor Cairnes, comes by to tell him that Clara is awake and it's quite obvious that she was put under the Imperius Curse. Her wand is broken irreparably, and no one knows who cast the curse.)

It has to be after curfew, because the Hospital Wing is deadly silent and John is on his side, trying to ignore the constant prickling under the bandage on his shoulder, when he hears a single pair of footsteps approaching. The long, thin body of his best friend climbs in without a word, and they line up marvelously well. Sherlock pats around until he finds John's hand and links them together against John's chest.

John laughs quietly into his pillow. "Sherlock, get off."

He doesn't answer, just buries his face in John's injured shoulder as if his breath alone can heal it.

"It was Moran," he says finally, his voice muffled because he refuses to move. "He did this."

"How? Sherlock, no one's seen him since summer."

"I don't know, he's snuck back into the castle somehow, it's not impossible. Probably put a Vanishing charm on a cloak and—"

"Sherlock."

Miraculously, he stops talking. His nose presses hard into John's shoulder and the long fingers that have been resting on John's hand go vice tight. He's shaking. Sherlock Holmes is lined up against his back and shaking like a leaf.

John doesn't know what to do. His throat tightens and he swallows against it, and he finally grips feebly back at the hand clutching his. "I'm all right."

"He could have—" He thankfully cuts himself off. "I'll talk to McGonagall. We can get an investigation going, I'm sure."

"Sherlock," he says again, and it doesn't take a detective to hear the torpor in his voice. Sherlock nods silently into John's shoulder, but he doesn't leave. John appreciates that more than the threat to send the hounds out across England for him. It's more comfortable than he thought it would be, sleeping with someone else, especially someone who's all elbows like Sherlock. John drifts off almost instantly. Sherlock doesn't sleep.

John wakes with a start in the morning when Pomfrey gives a tight yell and all but swats Sherlock out of his bed. The gangly boy stumbles away, gray eyes momentarily ready to fight back, but when they lock with the quiet amusement sitting on John's face, he smirks once and disappears from the Hospital Wing.

They keep him in his hospital bed for another two days while his shoulder recovers (Madame Pomfrey tells him that he'll have full mobility but the scar will never go away), and halfway through the first night Sherlock Holmes charges into the Hospital Wing and slams John's notebook down on the bedside table (it startles the poor girl in the bed next to John into hiccups that sprout purple bubbles from her ears). John jumps at the sudden noise, less surprised to see that Sherlock has his notebook than to see Sherlock in such an agitated state.

"What's the password, John?" Sherlock snaps. One half of John's mouth curls up in a smirk. "I've tried the name of every girl you know, all your favorite spells, _everything_." He pouts furiously. "I won't say it again. I don't know what it is. Tell me."

John takes his notebook into his hands very calmly, opens it to the first page and peers amusedly over the cover at the fuming Slytherin. "Sherlock Holmes."

The notes blossom on the page as if they're being written before their eyes. Pages and pages of them. Sherlock's eyes are wider than John has ever seen them, staring unreadably down at the mundane school notes in John's bold handwriting. When he looks back up, John is grinning.

"Oh," Sherlock says, dumbfounded.

He turns on heel and he practically runs from the Hospital Wing. John laughs so hard he nearly pulls something in his shoulder.

* * *

In May, the examiners come. John's shoulder is still rather stiff, and during his practical Transfiguration exam he accidentally gives his pepper pot eight nasty-looking legs. He blames it on mobility. Sherlock takes a look at John's notes (embarrassedly reciting his own name to get in) for the written Herbology exam come the morning.

Sherlock brings it up as he sits on John's four-poster bed, watching his friend pack some of his peripherals into his trunk to save time when they leave. He thinks about it several times (in fact, he's been thinking about it for quite some time now) before he opens his mouth to say it.

"John, it's too dangerous." And he curses in the back of his head because that wasn't what he wanted to say at all, and now John is looking at him oddly. "You, in the middle of all those Muggles all summer, and Moran and his associate on the loose." He scoots slightly closer to the edge of the bed. "So, I've made arrangements for you to stay with me over the summer."

John peers at him, mulling the conversation over. "Well, what about Harry? And—and my mum?"

Sherlock's brows knit together in confusion. "What _about_ Harry?"

The Hufflepuff's jaw literally drops, and he can't believe what's coming from Sherlock's mouth, and he's turned on heel to march out of the dormitory when he's grabbed from behind and spun. Sherlock has him by both shoulders, keeping him in place. John frowns.

"They aren't interested in Harry or your mother, because they're interested in _me_." Sherlock straightens himself almost imperceptibly. "They attacked something that I care about, and with as little offense as possible, I don't really care about your family, John."

John opens his mouth to protest angrily, and then it hits him. Hits him hard and solid and takes all the air in his lungs. It physically hurts. _Something that I care about_. Oh.

"Yeah," he says breathlessly around something in his throat. "Yeah, all right."

* * *

AN: I'm back! This one took long enough! And it's even longer! I am following Rowling's fine example, so far (so says my awesome beta Lady Dan). And after this chapter, the John/Sherlock will be quite out in the open (no more tension for you!). Thanks so so so much for sticking with me through all this and seeing me through, it's everyone's lovely support that keeps me going! Hope you enjoy, leave us some love, and above all STAY AWESOME!


	6. Year Six

**.year six.**

John Watson is one room away from Sherlock Holmes. Stuck for an entire summer holiday one room away from the boy who had formerly been his best friend. Not that Sherlock had done anything to warrant _not_ being his best friend anymore. Just because you simply don't have these kinds of thoughts about your best friend.

Yes, there's something undeniably attractive about Sherlock, though somehow strange. Like a shark (though John has never seen a shark, let alone close enough to call it handsome and _oh God_ what is he even talking about?). And he hides his face in his pillow because it's cooler than his face and _why_ is it so hot in here? Because you're not suppose to _blush_ when you're thinking about your best friend one room over and he's probably not even awake yet.

It doesn't help that every time John sees him, Sherlock's smirking like he's got a secret.

They eat alone at the enormous dining table (Mummy must work early, because she's gone by the time John is up every morning, and he's no slouch like Sherlock). John brings his Charms book to the table in the pretense of looking occupied with anything that isn't Sherlock Holmes. He's a terrible liar.

"All right?" Sherlock asks, head tilting.

John is flustered and confused, and no, he's really not all right. "There's a killer out there, and he's already got Carl, and he's after me because of you, and I'm not what you'd call all right." He doesn't say everything, of course, but he doesn't have to because Sherlock can read a face like a book.

When Sherlock closes his hand overtop of John's, there's a sort of jolt that goes through him, blowing his blood vessels wide open and _why_ is it so hot in here? That's never happened before. And it's a bit unnerving so John yanks his hand back in shock.

And it's all quite obvious all of a sudden, and both of them know it, and they've been working up to this since John sat down across from Sherlock at the end of their second year.

John moves first. Away. Very quickly.

So they don't talk about it. They spend nearly two whole weeks in relative silence, one trying to watch the other while the other isn't watching. Sherlock is much better at it. He catches John staring over his Charms book three times in a short span of minutes, and the shorter boy ducks down behind the pages (but Sherlock can still see the bright pink tips of his ears). But he doesn't say a thing.

(And one time John catches Sherlock and he has to force Something back down his throat when he sees the clever eyes he's used to seeing examining the evidence, pinning down their suspects, all on _him_.)

So they go nearly two weeks without a word. Not unfriendly, because they hardly leave each others' company. And one day, they're in Sherlock's room with quite a lot of space between them, and John is pretending to read again. This time, when Sherlock catches John, John stays firm. Doesn't look away. And it feels like a very long time that they simply examine one another from across the room. Sherlock sits up a bit straighter on the edge of his bed (he's not used to being the one under scrutiny, and he decides that, as long as it's John, he doesn't mind), and John's holding his book very tight.

It's the first time he's heard Sherlock speak all day. And he's unusually quiet when he says: "Yes, you can kiss me if you like," reading his bloody mind like he always does.

It only takes John a second to drop his book, mutter _Oh, hell_ under his breath, and stride across the room at high speed. He grabs both sides of Sherlock's face in his hands (and it's a good thing he's sitting, or else this would be difficult) and he presses his lips hastily to Sherlock's. There's a tingle not unlike fear in the back of John's brain when he realizes that he has no idea what he's doing, but thankfully Sherlock moves in and reapplies the firm pressure of his own lips.

John had expected quick and messy, but there's nothing hurried about this. Just like Sherlock to be slow and methodic, taking his sweet time to map out reaction and sensation. They're a bit uncoordinated, and there's more teeth involved than John thinks there should be, but they work it out very quickly (and Sherlock apologizes with his tongue). And John finds he rather likes the feel of Sherlock's curls between his fingers and, when Sherlock moves and stands and he takes control, John really doesn't mind having to stand on his toes to reach him.

When John finally decides he'd like to breathe, he presses his forehead against Sherlock's neck and takes in long, quiet breaths—Sherlock holds him there, long fingers splayed across the back of John's skull and obtrusively mussing his hair, pressing another long kiss at John's temple and just staying there.

"Wow," John murmurs uselessly against Sherlock's neck.

The tall boy nods, and even he can't think of anything more appropriate than, "Wow."

They don't move for a long time.

Sherlock must have inherited his skills of deduction from his mother, because she's hardly in the door before she sweeps her eyes over the two of them (sitting perfectly innocuous at the table), claps her hands together and gives an appreciative cry. She gathers John up into her arms and plants kisses atop his head before she twirls off into the house, and John is left to stare bleary questions at Sherlock. The Slytherin can't stand it for long and cracks a smile with tight laughter.

That night, when John would usually excuse himself from Sherlock's presence to slip into his own bed and try not to think about the dark-haired boy on the other side of his wall, he lingers, leaning against Sherlock's door and staring openly at him.

"D'you think we should talk about this?" he asks, and Sherlock crosses his legs under himself on the bed.

"I wasn't aware there was anything that needed to be talked about."

John's face pinches in concern, and Sherlock sees everything, and without a word he makes room on the bed and motions John over with a nod of his head. John takes the hint and slides in beside him. They lie side-by-side on their backs for a short time (Sherlock wordlessly asks for John's hand, and he gives it, and they sit in a nest between the two of them) and finally John turns his head.

"So, you want to be my boyfriend, then?" he asks rather bluntly. Sherlock shakes with a pent-up laugh.

"Is that what we'll call it?"

"I don't know," John sighs. "Hang on." He flips himself up so his hands straddle Sherlock's chest, stares seriously down at him (with Sherlock's eyes halfway between surprised and... expectant). John leans in to kiss him once, and it's no more than a lingering, thoughtful brush of lips (and when John tries to back away, Sherlock leans up to follow him). The Bagder gives a light laugh and touches his nose to Sherlock's. "Yeah. Definitely boyfriend."

"Yes, all right," Sherlock says impatiently, and he seizes the back of John's head to mash them back together.

When John doesn't leave and falls asleep curled up against Sherlock's chest, the gangly boy finally grins and drifts off with him.

In the morning, after he blinks the cobwebs from his eyes and remembers where he is and he grins and burrows his face into Sherlock's chest (and the Slytherin bats sleepily at John's head and murmurs something about _too early_), he sees that someone has moved all of John's things into Sherlock's room overnight. That cinches that.

* * *

For a while, they forget all about Moran and letters and school altogether. Sitting in the garden, John's head leaning into Sherlock's shoulder, and little has changed except there's an awful lot of kissing (when they're sure no one is looking, because there's something nervous that comes into Sherlock's eyes when he thinks they'll be seen).

When they're in the middle of Flourish & Blotts, hidden behind a bookcase and John is standing very close, head tilted and staring questioningly up at him, and Sherlock is red and throwing glances over both shoulders, John asks: "Are you embarrassed of me?"

There's a frightened look in Sherlock's eyes suddenly. "No. John, of course not, you idiot." And he settles slightly when he sees that John isn't bolting, and he rests his forehead just lightly against John's, and there's a quiet connection. He lowers his voice. "I can't have everyone know. Not yet, when I don't know who to trust. Please understand."

John nods slowly, runs strong, comforting fingers through Sherlock's hair. He kisses the edge of Sherlock's lips, stays there just a second longer than usual, and breaks away. They're both extremely distracted as they try to find their books for next year.

They stop in to see Harry settling into her job behind the bar at the Leaky Cauldron. John doesn't say much (they haven't talked for more then twenty minutes since the summer Harry tried to curse their mother's ex-boyfriend, and the falling-out has hit John the hardest, but he won't show it), and even though Sherlock doesn't parade this out for everyone to see, he's the one who tells Harry.

She blinks, smirks. "Like sister, like brother."

John won't tell his mother. Not because he doesn't want everyone and his brother to know that he's snogging Sherlock Holmes, but because he doesn't want to break her heart. Because Harry and Clara alone drove her to tears a hundred Christmases ago, and he doesn't know if he and Sherlock will completely destroy her. And he can't hate her, and he doesn't know why, so he won't tell her.

They're hardly in the door of his room when Sherlock has John up against the wall and there are several interesting things he does with his mouth and John can't believe that it's got him _weak in the knees_. So he holds on tight (and so does Sherlock).

"You had it figured out since the end of term last year," Sherlock says to John, (flat on the bed, resting his head against Sherlock's shoulder as the arm around him plays fingers thoughtlessly in blond hair that needs a trim). "That you were attracted to me," he elucidates. John shrugs fruitlessly (partially because he knows that Sherlock is right and partially because he's tired and just wants to fall asleep with him).

"What about you?" John asks, stifling a yawn.

"Oh, three or four years ago," he says as if it's nothing.

And it tugs at something between John's lungs with the weight of suddenly _knowing_. "Oh, Sherlock," he mutters and he grabs the boy's face and kisses him soundly.

But it doesn't last forever, because it can't. Because Carl was murdered and someone had put John in the hospital wing (the first time Sherlock gets John's jumper over his head he stares at the scar in John's shoulder and he gets very quiet and John just falls asleep holding him).

"He wasn't near the water," Sherlock mutters into John's hair, and the shorter boy stirs (because he's supposed to be awake and listening to Sherlock posit and hypothesize, but he's drifted off again).

"Hm?" John asks as though he's been listening. Sherlock knows better.

"Carl. He was drowned but he wasn't near the water. There were no signs of any sort of powerful spell used on him, and _damn_ I wish I could've inspected—" But he cuts himself off because of the stormy look gathering in John's tired eyes. "Sorry. But I want to help. And I need data to help."

"I know," John says lowly, nodding into Sherlock's neck.

"Was he a good swimmer?" Sherlock asks.

"I don't know. Decent, I suppose. He was a brilliant Seeker, and he was built a bit like he swam a lot. I never saw him, myself, but I guess he could've been."

He sighs, and it stirs in John's hair. "We need to get back to Hogwarts."

* * *

"We act as if nothing has changed," Sherlock says into John's ear, holding on tightly before they pass through onto the platform. John doesn't want to let go (because who the hell cares if he's holding Sherlock's hand or if he wants to kiss Sherlock in the hall between O.W.L.-level Charms and lunch?), and he grips hard at Sherlock's arms.

"Yeah, nothing's changed, all right," John nearly laughs, and he perches up on his toes to leave a lingering kiss at Sherlock's brow. "You're still an arse."

The Slytherin smiles, fixes John's hair where he's mussed it. "See you on the train."

Their fingers slip away, and John already hates this. Two months with Sherlock Holmes as his boyfriend and he can't stand the thought of not touching him. Something's most definitely wrong with him.

The Hufflepuff team is gathered in a clump on the platform, and John greets them at a run (and they all gather together in a knot and hold on tightly, because no one is forgetting the scrawny boy who isn't with them, and they don't say anything for a long moment).

"Where's Sherlock?" Violet asks, peering around the platform. "I've got so used to seeing the two of you that I'm not sure you're two people anymore."

John does his very best not to blush. "Don't know. He said he'd see me off." And he's not afraid of what the Badgers will say when they find out (because they _will_ find out, they're not stupid), but he's promised Sherlock not to let it out of the bag.

When Sherlock does appear, John smiles all the same as he usually does, and when they meet in a (friendly) embrace, it takes a great deal of effort not to stay there. He tells the Hufflepuffs all about Sherlock's enormous house, and Sherlock picks up his cat and cradles her in his arms as he listens almost disinterestedly to John talk. Sherlock is a magnificent actor, fantastically hides all the necessary details and give-aways in his face. He decides that John will need some serious coaching if he's going to deceive anyone.

(But Sherlock surprises even himself when he realizes that he doesn't care if Violet and Soo Lin and Mike and all those smiling Badgers know that he's hardly let go of John for two months. They're the closest to a normal family he's ever had, and he does a very good job of not showing his shock when he discovers it.)

John leaves them for the prefect's car, scratches Felicia between the ears, and he fixes Sherlock with a look that lasts less than two seconds, but it stays with Sherlock for the entire train ride. Soo Lin tries to talk to him three times before he registers her voice, after which he pays very careful attention to all of them. None of them miss it, and the girls exchange questioning glances.

While John sits safe and snug in the prefect's car, talking animatedly with Sarah, Sherlock feels interrogated. Soo Lin, Violet and Amanda have boxed him into the corner of the compartment, and he fixes the only boy left in the compartment (Andy, the poor thing, looking just as trapped and he's on the far opposite end) and pleads wordlessly for assistance.

John's patrolling the corridor, and when he peers into their compartment, Sherlock locks frantic eyes with him as Soo Lin prods him for answers, and John grins wondrously through the glass at him—lingers to watch, and just as Sherlock's eyes go soft and Soo Lin realizes that he's not paying attention to them and she turns to the door, John's moved on down the way.

The Slytherin has him cornered somewhere in the third floor corridor, caught him on his midnight patrol, and won't let him move. And John lets him, because it feels like this day has gone on for months and he can't believe how easy it is to miss someone else's breath in his ear. "This is going to be dreadful," Sherlock says just before he presses his lips to the space under John's ear, and the Badger hums something halfway between acknowledgment and appreciation.

John runs his fingers up and down the back of Sherlock's neck, lacing into curls and knotting them together. "It's a real easy fix, y'know," John tells him, looking at his jaw line and most definitely not the calculating gray eyes.

"There's someone here that wants to hurt you because you're my _friend_," Sherlock mutters, rubbing his nose fondly into the hair above John's ear. "What will he do if he finds out we're snogging?" He feels John laughing quietly against him, and he wants to join in, but he can't. "No, John, not yet."

"Yeah," John sighs. "Hogwarts isn't ready for us." And he grins, and Sherlock really can't be blamed for lowering his head to kiss him again. John agrees, gripping both sides of Sherlock's head and opening his mouth when Sherlock's asks for access.

John walks Sherlock back to the Slytherin dungeon, and they don't touch or even speak. When John leaves him to continue his rounds, Sherlock presses his hot face against the cool stone wall and tries to appear gathered and not thoroughly kissed when he casually enters the common room. It helps that no one looks up at him (a ghost in his own House).

And much stays the same, just as they'd planned. Sherlock still eats breakfast at the Hufflepuff table (squashed between Mike and John and avoiding Soo Lin's knowing eyes), he still occupies his chair in the Hufflepuff common room, and he still sends John owls at all hours (but these notes are hardly ever about some banal mystery that needs solving anymore, and John always finds him in whatever dark corner he's asked to). Sherlock still helps John with his potions, and John still supervises Sherlock with the difficult Charms Flitwick springs on them.

But they don't receive any notes from their mysterious friend, Moran's companion. Not until early November.

It's directly after their first match with Ravenclaw that someone catches them. Andy's not the best Seeker at Hogwarts, but John and Violet have the most iron-tight defense the Hufflepuff team has seen in decades, and they manage to hold off Ravenclaw's Seeker long enough for Andy to get the idea and catch the Snitch. John sees them all out of the locker room, patting backs and grinning, and frankly isn't surprised to see Sherlock waiting once they've all cleared out. John is covered in sweat and sore and he probably smells, but it's quite clear that neither of them really care at this point.

Sherlock decides, leaning down and tasting John's open mouth, that he really rather likes John is his Quidditch uniform.

There's a small noise somewhere behind them, and John's vaguely aware that his hair is sticking straight out where Sherlock's mussed it, and Sherlock has taken half a step backward, but it would be clear to absolutely anyone what the two of them have been doing.

Wide-eyed, confused, tiny Jimmy Moriarty is standing in the doorway and glancing disbelievingly between the two of them. The face that John normally sees full of teeth and smiling is contorting into something he's never seen before. Something that almost looks terrifying on Jimmy's friendly face.

"Jimmy," John says immediately, trying to smooth his hair down and smooth things over because Sherlock's eyes are just as wide. "It's, ah... not what it..."

"It's okay," the young Slytherin says quite suddenly, and the brief flash of something horrible on his face is replaced with the familiar grin. "I'll just have a word later. Don't let me stop you. Oh, and John—" His head moves slightly from side to side, a move vaguely reptilian. "It's _Jim_."

He twirls away, leaving them alone again, and John turns his eyes immediately to Sherlock. The tall boy watches warily after Jim and only turns to John at his name. "Who was that?" Sherlock asks vaguely (of course he's seen the wide-eyed Slytherin moving quietly, friendlessly through the common room, but he's never registered that fact as useful or interesting).

"Doesn't matter," John assures him. "Look, I'll have a chat with him. He won't tell anyone."

Sherlock nods, almost as if he hasn't been listening.

John does catch up with Jim, and they do have a quiet chat, and Jim never breaks his understanding smile. Of course he won't let on that he knows. He excuses himself and joins Molly Hooper arm-in-arm down the hallway, leaving John on his own and very confused.

They manage to keep it up for nearly a week after that. There are times Sherlock seems distracted, and he'll turn his head to stare at nothing in particular, his eyes miles away. John wonders briefly if it's because Sherlock is getting bored (no cases since the end of last year, no notes or codes or anything to peak his interest), and Sherlock answers without having to hear the question.

"I'm not bored of you. Shut up." And he undoes John's tie, tosses it away, and John shuts up (but he doesn't give Sherlock the upper hand, ripping off Sherlock's tie and applying his tongue there instead).

They linger a bit too long in the cupboard, and when John realizes that he's nearly late for Charms he curses under his breath and tries several times to button his shirt. He grabs his tie, tying it messily and presses a kiss to Sherlock's lips before dashing off.

Flitwick is smiling oddly when John moves into his seat, and Soo Lin beside him is already giggling. John doesn't think much of it at first (after all, he _was_ nearly late, and John is never nearly late to Charms), but when the others around him begin to talk in whispers and someone else gives a light laugh, John becomes suddenly very concerned.

"What?" he asks Soo Lin seriously, and she only grins and shakes her head.

Flitwick clears his throat. "I wasn't aware you'd changed House, Mister Watson."

John doesn't quite understand at first, blinking at the Charms teacher and finally Soo Lin breaks into uncontrollable giggles, pointing straight at his chest. He sees it when he looks down. He's grabbed Sherlock's tie. Green and silver and tied sloppily to boot. And it couldn't have been more obvious to everyone in the classroom as to where the tie had come from and why John must have switched them.

So he goes inhumanly red, stutters something and undoes Sherlock's tie with surprisingly calm fingers. He tosses the tie into his bag, hides his burning face in both of his hands on his desk and doesn't say a word the entire lesson. The class moves on, occasionally throwing a grin in John's direction, but no one brings it up again.

At lunch, with the Great Hall at nearly full capacity, John and Sherlock meet in the aisle near the Hufflepuff table. Sherlock has John's tie loosely draped over his collar, smirking cautiously and approaching with his hands in his pockets. John stands abruptly, and suddenly all the Hufflepuffs are quiet and looking up. And their silence causes a handful to look up from the Ravenclaw table, and with a wave, several heads are looking up all across the Great Hall to see what has caused so many people to quiet down.

John's face has gone red again, eyes darting to the faces turned up to look at them. He rummages briefly in his bag until he finds Sherlock's tie, which he holds out between them. Sherlock glances only minutely at the upturned faces, and without saying a word he slides John's tie from around his neck and, with a flick of his wrist, loops it around John's to pull him close.

John's skin nearly burns him when he leaves a kiss at John's temple in front of everyone.

Still close, John sweeps his eyes over Sherlock's face, and he's sure he never blushes, but today has been a hell of a show for it. He's radiating heat. Sherlock still hasn't let go of the ends of his tie.

"Make up your goddamn mind, won't you?" John asks in a quiet voice. And then a smile shyly works its way across his face, and he doesn't know why Sherlock's decided to display them in front of the Great Hall, but he's so glad that he does.

Sherlock still hasn't said a thing, but he mirrors John's smile, takes the green and silver tie and turns back the way he came.

After lunch, they're both headed down the second floor corridor, not needing to speak to talk, when Anderson appears in front of them and punches Sherlock hard in the face without warning. Sherlock hits the floor with a yelp, and Anderson holds Sherlock down with his heel.

"Fucking _poof_," Anderson spits. "You're not a proper Slytherin, you're a _disgrace_! Look at you and your pet Badger, you make me sick."

And John's a prefect, so he can take all the points away from Slytherin that he wants to for Anderson's diatribe, but that's not the first thing that comes into John's mind. Looking at Sherlock sprawled on the floor, his lip split and bleeding and he's cradling his arm where he hit the flagstone, and for a moment he looks at John and he looks _vulnerable_ and John has never seen that look on his face.

So John gets angry. Angrier than he's ever been. Like a fist punching right into his chest, grabbing his insides and twisting them into a harsh, white-hot knot that pulses against Something in his throat that won't move. And he fixes that vicious glare on Anderson, wants to burn him right up into ash, and Anderson knows it. Stares right into it, and his eyes go wide, and his hand isn't on his wand fast enough to defend himself.

"_Depulso!_" John shouts, backhanding the spell right at Anderson, and with a bright flash the Slytherin goes flying back through the corridor amid the screams and shuffling of other students as they flee from his trajectory.

But John isn't done. He follows Anderson's tumbling body and he raises his wand again. "_DEPULSO!" _and it's terrifyingly louder this time (rings back in John's ears as it bounces off the walls) and he slashes his wand through the air at Anderson, and he's projected forcefully away again, sailing screaming through the air and he lands hard against a far wall.

And John is shaking from somewhere deep in his chest, and he's gritting his teeth so hard it's painful, and he's stalking after Anderson (someone he doesn't even know begs him to stop, and he can hear Violet's voice among them), and he raises his wand again when he finally reaches Anderson (weak and shaking and groaning on the floor).

But someone grabs his wrist and stops him, and for a moment he's too anger-blind to understand that he has to stop, but the fingers are strong and insistent. John glares over his shoulder, and he suddenly stops. Professor Slughorn is there, holding him back, aghast. It all drains from John in a wash.

But he doesn't regret it. Not in the slightest.

"Detention," Slughorn says instantly. "And twenty points from Hufflepuff."

When Slughorn lets him go, John backs away from the destruction he's wrought on Anderson and he takes it all in. Then he turns to catch Sherlock's eye (how had he ended up so far away?) and the boy is half-off the floor, looking right at him with pride and admiration and—

John whips his head back to Slughorn. "I'd take two if you'd give it to me. Because I'll do what's right and I'll stick by him, and I don't give a damn how many detentions I get for it."

He loses another ten points for insubordination, but he's already headed back down the hall toward Sherlock. He takes the Slytherin's hand, pulls him to his feet and doesn't let go, carting the both of them away from the scene.

When they're alone (save for the curious faces in the paintings), Sherlock doesn't sweep him off his feet and kiss him senseless. He just runs his hands over John's face, through his hair, can't stop looking at him. And they just cling silently to one another until they have to part for class.

Hours later, sitting alone in the library while he waits for John's detention to come to an end, there's a light rustling over Sherlock's head and by the time he looks up, a note has fluttered to the table in front of him. He gives a surreptitious look around before he unfolds the single piece of parchment. The handwriting is finger-numbingly familiar.

_I know, and I will burn the heart out of you._

Sherlock moves unnaturally fast. He doesn't know how he gets to the Hufflepuff common room as quickly as he does, but he bursts in and nearly bowls himself over as he stops just as fast. His eyes dart from face to face that has stopped what they're doing to see what Sherlock is doing here, and he finally finds the face he's looking for.

He doesn't say anything, throws his arms around John and holds him crushingly tight. _I know_, the words echo in his head over and over and when he closes his eyes all he can see is John in the hospital bed and the look on his face when he'd fallen from his broom. "Oh, John, I can't lose you."

John tries to smile. "It was just detention, Sherlock."

The look Sherlock gives him when he pulls away (his eyes burning with all sorts of things John isn't used to seeing in there, like despair and rage and John doesn't dare think _love_ because he's sure he'll faint dead away) sets a fire in him.

"Oh," John says, and he can barely manage a syllable around the Something in his throat.

And the kiss is sudden and intense, and neither is sure who's started it this time, but both of them are mashing their tongues against the others', teeth clashing, and it's messy but also sort of wonderful. Hands fist awkwardly in clothing, and John has to propel himself upward to align their mouths correctly, but _oh_. There's a moment of shared breath, and then a pillow connects with the side of John's face.

Violet laughs with her entire body, laughing with tearful joy as she throws another and it hits Sherlock in the middle. And half of Hufflepuff house is there and they've seen everything. It's Sherlock's turn to go red, but soon John is laughing too, burying his burning face deep in Sherlock's neck and muttering muted giggles against him.

Then, Sherlock realizes it's not a derisive, hurtful laugh that's pounding in his ears from all directions. It's the sort of laugh that friends laugh together, playful and loving, and he's sure he's never heard it on his behalf aside from the mouth of John Watson. Suddenly, he's laughing too, and it almost hurts the way it contracts unfamiliarly in his chest. But he lets it, hiding his smile in John's hair.

"Can we call him your boyfriend now?" Mike asks from across the room.

"Yeah, you goddamn snoop," John says, lifting his head (he feels giddy, and it must be the adrenaline that's making him smile so wide). His dark blue eyes tick up to look right into Sherlock's, and he's asking.

"Don't be dull, John," Sherlock says reflexively. Then he grins, and John knows he's done for because he loves that grin and the way it sticks in his heart. "Of course."

There are precautions set up in every dormitory to prevent the boys from sneaking into the girls' bunks. There are no such precautions to prevent Sherlock Holmes from curling up behind John Watson and breathing words in his ear as they run their fingers together over and over.

"He's back," Sherlock says in the darkness, and one of the other sleeping boys nearby gives a snort and rolls over.

John turns in bed to face Sherlock, and even though he can't see anything, it helps. "Moran's lackey?"

"I'm not convinced he's just an associate anymore." He frowns, and John can feel it.

"You think Moran was a... a sidekick?"

"A loyal follower," Sherlock corrects him. "I have a horrible feeling that this mysterious friend is far more dangerous than we've been considering."

"You don't get _feelings_," John chides.

"Sometimes I do," Sherlock breathes, and that's all they have to say about that.

* * *

Sherlock practically lives in the Hufflepuff dormitory. He wakes up with John in the morning (though some nights he doesn't sleep and sits in his chair by the fire), he walks with them to breakfast, he spends warm evenings in the cozy common room listening to John discuss maneuvers with Soo Lin. And some evenings he'll pull John into his chair with him, wrap his long arms around the shorter boy and just hold him there in silence.

And the Hufflepuffs are ridiculously proud of the two of them. Violet shows them off, Amanda brags about them. They become the new standard among all the Badgers (and Soo Lin points them out to her boyfriend Andy, Sherlock and John draped wordlessly in the chair by the fire, and asks why they can't be more like that). For the most part, John doesn't notice; Sherlock can't help but notice, but with the Hufflepuffs, he really doesn't mind. They only continue things the way they've always done.

John has no idea why Sherlock is in Divination. He's heard the Slytherin speak out on its absurdity at length and at varying volumes since he elected to take it in their Third Year, but he almost seems to enjoy it. As if the vagueness of prediction and palm-reading is some sort of supernatural challenge to his natural abilities of deduction. If nothing else, it supplies him with something to belittle.

So when Sherlock appears in the common room waving his arms and going on and on about something Trelawney has predicted, John's taken a bit off guard.

"You think it's rubbish," John says, his eyes following Sherlock's erratic movements. "You say she's a fraud about three times a day."

Sherlock leans down to leave a kiss at John's brow, which is his signal to shut up and listen. "This was more exciting," Sherlock continues. He pulls out a slip of parchment. "She interrupted a lesson to shout about the spirits converging on me and speaking to her, or something of the like, as she usually does. I nearly missed the beginning, but I believe I got it word for—" And John tugs lightly at the the hair at the back of Sherlock's neck, which means _speed it up_. "Anyway. 'The spotted owl meets the yellow snake after years of struggle. The knight of just and loyal heart will break his shield to save him, and then the game begins'."

"Well, that's rubbish," John reiterates. "Here, Slughorn's given me an extra essay on shrinking potions—"

"No, John," Sherlock interrupts rather loudly (but the Hufflepuffs are used to the outbursts and they let the two go on as they always do), "it's a clue, don't you see? _The game begins_, this game we've been playing with our mysterious friend."

"I really don't think it's a game," John cuts in, and Sherlock shushes him with a hand over his mouth.

"_The yellow snake_, that's me. The Slytherin raised by Badgers." (John manages the flicker of a smirk in reply.) "And _the knight of just and loyal heart_, that's you, John. And _the spotted owl_. That's Moran's man."

"It's an owl," John says around Sherlock's hand.

"It's the first insight we've had into what we're up against. What's an owl, John?"

He looks at his boyfriend as though he's sprouted wings, and he knocks Sherlock's hand away. "It's an _owl_, Sherlock. They fly about and eat mice. Are you ill?"

"They're _communication_. They're the links that connect the entire wizarding world. They can see and hear everything because they're everywhere. That's how he _knows_."

And John gets it now. "You don't think it's figurative, like the snake and the knight?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock says with unbound enthusiasm. "An Animagus."

"Now, wait a second," John interjects. "This is Divination we're talking about, not deduction. These clues aren't _real_. You can't call a prediction by a washed-up ball-reader a... a _clue_."

"A true detective sees truth wherever the source," Sherlock tells him, his spirits completely undampened. "She was the one who found Carl, she has indubitable ties to this—" And he stops, because he's undeniably enthusiastic about the revelation, but John's gaze has dropped away.

After a moment (because Sherlock will always give him a moment), John finds Sherlock's eyes again. "Do you really think this'll help us find who murdered Carl?" He sounds strong.

"I think so, yes," Sherlock replies.

"Well, okay." John takes a breath, because it's a lot to take in. "So, what do we do, start interrogations in the Owlery?"

And they both grin at the absurdity and John laughs the loudest out of the two of them. That night, Sherlock sends off a letter (with his own owl, one he trusts) to his brother to look into the Animagus registry. John does go to the Owlery, stands in the middle of the drafty tower and takes a long look at all of the birds surrounding him. And he does feel inexplicably _watched_, examined, read.

He gives out a shaky cloud of breath and utters: "I dare you." A challenge. A threat.

Something flutters above him, but it's only an owl settling into its perch, nestling in for sleep. John shivers, and it must be the cold. So he wraps Sherlock's green and silver scarf more tightly around him and leaves with a quickened pace.

Mycroft gets back to Sherlock in record time for a Ministry man. No registered avian Animagi in the British Isles, and a brief inquiry into John's health. John's eyes ask if Sherlock has told Mycroft about the two of them, and Sherlock's eyes say _Idiot_. There's a brief line about a suspected sighting of Sebastian Moran in northern England, but it's written with such little thought that Sherlock dismisses it immediately.

It's the last line of Mycroft's letter that strikes dread into their hearts.

_I have arranged a fitting for the both of you, after last year's Christmas debacle, and I'd like you to look nice for Mummy when we announce your partnership_.

"Oh God," John mutters.

Sherlock nods, ashen, and confirms: "_Oh God_."

Before they leave for the holiday, John convinces Sherlock to come with him to see Trelawney. She's still seated in her classroom, the last of the Third Years filing out in a mixture of wide-eyed glee and cynicism, when they climb the ladder to see her. She glances up over the crystal ball she's running a light cloth over, and when she adjusts her glasses to see them better, she gives a small noise in the back of her throat.

"Oh, Mister Holmes. I expected you." Her eyes linger on John, and she adds in a voice fogged in mystery: "You, boy. Is your father well?"

John fixes Sherlock with a dull glance and he tries very hard not to tell her right off. "Professor Trelawney, last week you said something to Sherlock about snakes and owls, and..." He breaks off, because even though he knows Divination is useless, especially from the woman standing in front of him, he gets the uncanny feeling that she knows why he's really here. "And you're the one who found Carl, and I never said _thank you_."

When she chokes up, John really can't help himself, and the room fractures with his unspent tears. He tries very hard to keep them down, but she pulls him into her embrace, covering him in her shawls as she comfortingly pats his head.

She tells them all that she knows (pouring tea for them both; Sherlock doesn't touch his, because he knows she'll want to read his tea leaves, but John doesn't know better). She remembers all too much about the sad little body she'd found propped up against Greenhouse Three, all alone in a corner and surrounded by the untended blue grass. He'd certainly looked like a boy who had drowned, and she distinctly remembered checking him for signs of a fight (she chokes up again, remembering how she had felt about someone holding this poor boy's head under the water), but there'd been no struggle.

Trelawney snatches up John's teacup when he's finished, turns it clockwise and back several times as she finds a good angle at which to observe. She gives a small tut and says "You must talk to your sister," before she sees them off with a wave of her handkerchief (which she wipes her eyes with when she thinks they've gone).

"You make her out to be such an oaf," John notes as they walk hand-in-hand back to the common room. "She's really very... _nice_."

"_Nice_," Sherlock drawls as if in pain. "Nice is dull."

John smirks. "I'm a nice guy."

"Anderson wouldn't say as much," Sherlock reminds him, and John has to admit that, yes, he really can be decidedly _not_ nice.

"How _is_ Anderson?" John asks with just the right hint of revulsion.

Sherlock smirks. "Terrified. I've told him just the sorts of Charms you have in that book."

John squeezes Sherlock's hand and they both can't stop smiling until they've reached the common room.

They're hardly off the train before Mycroft is there with his assistant ushering them away under escort to a discreet Floo Network exit. The next thing John knows, they're in some sort of high-end shop and someone he doesn't know is stripping him to his pants. The room is mighty cold but it's also mighty warm thanks to the view he's getting of Sherlock Holmes, who they haven't even bothered to cordon off with screens or curtains or anything that'd block John's direct line of sight to four mirrors-full of Sherlock's arse.

Granted, it's Sherlock's arse in his underpants, but they don't leave much of anything to the imagination. Six months of swapping spit with Sherlock and he'd never even thought about what's been under those trousers. He's always known Sherlock is skinny as all-get-out, but it's different when John's eyes follow the long lines of Sherlock's legs up and—

_And now he can't stop looking_. John has to blindly allow the tailors to take their measurements around him because he's fairly sure he's lost feeling in his limbs, or at least the ability to control them. Because now he wants to get his hands on those legs and hips and oh God if he doesn't stop thinking about it, things are going to get very embarrassing very quickly.

And when Sherlock glances up from the short wizard taking the measurement of his left instep and sees John _looking_ at him, there's a nearly imperceptible flick of Sherlock's eyes up and down John in reciprocation. Two sets of eyes finally getting a good look, appraising, taking their sweet time. _Why is it so hot in here?_

What feels like hours later, both of them carrying the suits Mycroft has paid for, Sherlock and John lock eyes and John can feel every little movement of that gaze over him. And John involuntarily runs his tongue across his lips, and it really doesn't help because now Sherlock is focused and intense and Mycroft is looking at them with an eyebrow arched and judging.

Oh, this is going to be a long holiday.

* * *

The Holmes Estate looks especially resplendent this holiday, decorated in muted grays and blues and filled with the quiet milling of what feels, to John, like more people than there used to be. All of them seem tall and cold, distant and perhaps even nonhuman. And John is wearing a tailored suit to match them, to match Sherlock, and he tries loosening his tie to vent the nerves as he stares down at them from the second floor banister.

Sherlock's hand on his face directs John's eyes away from the scene below to serious gray eyes. He repeats the mantra (They don't matter, none of them matter) while smoothing hands over John's hair and face. John nods at last, holds Sherlock's hand to his face long enough to leave a kiss against his palm, then fixes their fingers firmly together. They go together, like they always will.

Mummy gives a bright cry of joy when she sees that the two have joined them at last, gathering both boys into the same embrace and pressing elated kisses to the tops of both heads. John manages a brief smirk (most especially at the color spreading to Sherlock's ears), before she turns the both of them to face the crowd of suddenly-attentive onlookers.

"You all remember John Watson from last year's get-together," Mrs. Holmes announces, and even though she hasn't raised her voice, everyone can hear; she has the same magnetic effect as her son. "I'm supremely pleased to tell you all that he's courting my son, Sherlock."

John glances over to Sherlock and mouths _Courting?_ with something akin to amusement in his eyes. Sherlock gives the minutest shake of his head, embarrassment crawling even further up his face to his eyebrows.

There's a brief flurry of talk from the crowd (some calls of _congratulations_, some derision that John can hear all the way from the back where they think they're being quiet), but the general facade is acceptance. John doesn't care if it's only a facade, because they don't matter. He squeezes Sherlock's hand more tightly, taking all of them on in a glance.

(The nearest man, tall and slightly corpulent with the air of bureaucracy simply oozing from him, actually gives a small smirk of acquiescence at John's show of strength. _That_ matters.)

There's a general pervading air of evaluation, thick enough to taste, and John's tasted it before. But last year, he had the shield of his old Christmas jumper; last year, Sherlock had been his best friend. This year, he's full-on in the middle of this swamp of scrutiny and everyone knows that he's been in Potions cupboards kissing the hell out of Sherlock. Mycroft is, surprisingly, one of the only bastions from the subtle judgment, nearly smiling when the two approach him (and Sherlock's right, the Ministry must be good for Mycroft because he's put on a whole stone since John saw him last).

Against their best efforts, they're separated eventually. Sherlock taken by his great uncle to a table of serious-looking men with champagne, and John stolen by a gaggle of black-haired girls who John recognized as second-cousins. He hates the feeling of being cut off more than he does the one of being cornered when the girls finally get him alone.

"Sherlock's important," one of them says. She has a blue ribbon in her hair.

"You're not," says an identical girl with a red ribbon.

_Triplets, perfect_, John sighs in his head.

"You're a bad influence," says the third, in a green ribbon. "And we don't appreciate you seducing him away from his important work."

"He's going to be Ministry," Red Ribbon says haughtily. "Just like his father."

"Everyone's Ministry," cuts in Blue Ribbon. "A little flirtation on the side isn't going to stop him, you know."

John purses his lips, doesn't say anything, and desperately wants to escape.

"Holmes and Ministry go together like jam and clotted cream," states Green Ribbon importantly. "I've never heard of the _Watsons_," she says, curling her lip.

"They're not important," Red Ribbon says flippantly. "So, we want you to walk away. Daddy's in the Department of Underage Wizardry, I'm sure he could find a way to convince you, if you decide not to cooperate."

"I'm sorry," John says with a laugh, suddenly straightening, "but are you _threatening_ me?" He feels taller, and suddenly extremely vindictive because who the hell has the right to tell him who he can and can't be with? So he straightens his tie and holds his chin up strongly. "Excuse me for saying so, ladies, but _fuck off_." And he brushes brusquely by them, leaving three identical scandalized faces in his wake. Yes, really occasionally _very_ not nice.

He finds Sherlock, and the Slytherin can read that face just as easily as a book, and it says _GET ME OUT OF HERE_. So he takes John's hand, makes an off-handed excuse to his great uncle and his entourage, and leads John quickly back up the stairs (they only wish good night to Mummy, who waves them brightly off).

"I wanted to curse the smirks right off their goddamn faces," John says almost as soon as they get into Sherlock's room. "Said I ought to back off or they'd sic their dad on me, and Sherlock, let me tell you how much self-restraint I've got, because—"

Sherlock has both of John's wrists enclosed in his fists very suddenly, and he pins them very easily above John's head, right up against the door with an audible thump. And it's suddenly very close, and he's had Sherlock this close before but there's something different this time. Because Sherlock won't let go of John's wrists, keeping him there, staring right into the shorter boy's eyes with enough heat to melt him right away. John tries several times for a breath, but even that seems postponed under Sherlock's evaluating eyes.

And he finally opens his mouth to speak (quiet and close and warm breath on his lips just out of reach). "I can't stop staring at you in that suit, John. It's very distracting, and I think that you should take it off."

John's head feels incredibly light and woozy because all the blood's decided to leave his brain, and he nods very carefully. Sherlock doesn't waste any time, pinning John even further with his mouth. Open and sloppy, each trying to fit as much of his own tongue into the others' mouth as possible. A hurried, hungry sort of exchange that leaves John's heart pounding hard in all of his extremities.

And when Sherlock finally lets go of his wrists, John is instantly ripping off Sherlock's tie and fumbling with his buttons. Sherlock simply won't stand for losing the upper hand, and his hands find John's hips and yank them forward into his own. John's mouth stutters like a record skipping, and he doesn't bother to gather himself before he surges back against Sherlock's thigh as demanded. This time they both halt (for just a fraction of a second), and neither opens his eyes.

Sherlock grabs John's arse (and he'd laugh at the way it sounds if he weren't too busy enjoying it) and brings John even higher up on his thigh (very close to something dizzying, and John wets his lips instinctually at just the thought of it), pressing them even closer together. Sherlock's aware of just how hard he's breathing when John clamps his leg around Sherlock's, his mouth on Sherlock's throat, and his hips react by pressing John back against the door for greater friction.

For a few glorious minutes, that's enough.

"Off," John demands heavily, and for the briefest moment there's a flash of rejection in gray eyes. But John shakes his head, yanking Sherlock's shirt open in the same movement he shoves him toward the bed. "_Off_," he reiterates, tugging his own button-down out of his trousers and off. It's Sherlock's turn to nod hazily.

He backs Sherlock onto the mattress, straddling narrow hips and working to find the clasp on Sherlock's trousers. There's a brief, horrible moment of frustration when John's hands are _right there_ but he can't get the goddamn zip down with his useless fingers and Sherlock murmurs curses as he breaks down and does it himself (and then helps John with his own trouser problems because he really can't be bothered to wait any longer), kicking his trousers off leg by leg.

And for a moment, they just stay there, pressed against one another with the barest of layers between them and John just wants to savor it. Closes his eyes, presses his forehead to Sherlock's, tries to control his breathing (_breathing is boring_). He makes a very interesting noise when Sherlock shifts his hips upward (so interesting that Sherlock does it again), and just as he takes Sherlock's mouth again (hands sliding up and down Sherlock's ribs and stomach and anywhere John can map him out), there's a bright rap at their door.

John's eyes snap open. Sherlock turns his head to the door (keeping John firmly planted with hands on his hips), and no one says anything. The knock comes again, and this time there's a voice with it.

"Sherlock, darling," Mummy's voice comes dull through the wooden door (and suddenly John is pink all over blushing and he rolls off of Sherlock like he's on fire). "There's an owl for you, and it's really very insistent. It won't give its letter to anyone else, and it's bothering Agatha. Could you please pop down to the kitchen?"

Sherlock bounds off the bed in an instant, whipping his curly head around until he finds the crumpled trousers at the foot of the bed and hops eagerly back into them. And that's how he bolts out of the room, and the red heat is back in John's neck and ears and oh God everyone's going to see him like that and just know.

So John decides to follow him, to hell with everyone else (throwing on his pyjama bottoms and his dressing gown in the very least), horribly red when he excuses himself past Mummy Holmes still in the hallway.

There's a back way down to the kitchens, but they still manage to run into the triplets on their way (leaving scandalized whispers in their wake, but John really could care less about the beribboned harpies), and despite Sherlock's longer legs, John catches up with him rather easily.

The owl in the kitchen window is small and unassuming, freckled spots near its eyes and beak, and staring directly at them when they enter the room. It's sitting on a letter addressed only to Sherlock, and the kitchen staff are keeping their distance (one of the cooks cradling her hand as if she's been bitten by the sharp little beak).

Sherlock straightens. "Hello," he says stiffly to the owl. And it hits John hard in the stomach. _Spotted owl_.

John reaches clumsily for a wand that isn't there, and _why_ didn't he bring his wand? There's a gleam in the owl's deep eyes that John swears he recognizes, but for the life of him, he can't remember.

"Sherlock," John growls, his eyes on the tiny creature in the window.

"I know," Sherlock answers calmly.

As soon as Sherlock takes the first step forward, the owl flutters away through the open window into the black night. John bolts forward and stares out after it (can't shake the feeling that he knows those eyes, the amused little glint shining back at him) and Sherlock takes the letter from the windowsill where the bird had perched.

He shows it to John instantly. A single line of directions. "Locker number. King's Cross, looks like," John murmurs. "What d'you think in means?"

"He wants us to play," Sherlock replies heavily.

They return to Sherlock's room, and Sherlock does strip his trousers back off before he climbs into bed, but they both wordlessly agree that there can be no continuation of previous activities. Not with the eminent threat of the game starting all over again hanging over their heads. John grips Sherlock across the chest from behind, burrowing his face into his boyfriend's back.

"He's the one who murdered Carl, isn't he?" he speaks softly into Sherlock's skin.

"Yes. Undoubtedly." Sherlock strokes his thumb over John's knuckles. "We should leave tomorrow for King's Cross, then?"

"Undoubtedly," John reiterates. Because no one else is going to die if John Watson has anything to say about it.

They manage to escape the Holmes Estate without harassment, and a handful of Floo Powder later, they're standing in the Leaky Cauldron. John sees the back of Harry's head, and he doesn't say a word. Just takes Sherlock's hand and heads out the front door. John instructs Sherlock on how to take the Underground, and despite a few heads turning at the strange newcomer who can't seem to get the hang of his Oyster card, they make it an uneventful journey.

The locker in question is number 221, and the paper notice on the door tells them that it's out of order and shouldn't be used. Sherlock knows better. He opens the small door and the two of them peer cautiously inside at the same time. It's a pair of shoes. At first, neither of them reach inside. What if they've been cursed? What if this is some sort of not-so-elaborate trap? It's John that eventually reaches in and retrieves the trainers.

At first glance, there's nothing particularly special about them. Just a pair of trainers, slightly large, well-kept. And then John's throat seizes up, because there's a name written inside the trainers.

"Sherlock," John says, and his voice is weak. "They're Carl's."

The Slytherin takes the shoes from John's hand, kisses the shorter boy at the brow and watches him concernedly the rest of the trip home.

When they make the trip back to Hogwarts, Carl's trainers are carefully tucked away in Sherlock's trunk. He has a terrible idea that this will all be coming to a head very soon.

* * *

While John coordinates a losing Quidditch team and works into the night on extended Potions essays (coupled with the Apparition lessons and the increasing difficulty of the Charms being piled on him), Sherlock studies the shoes. He spends long nights in the dungeon, pouring over those trainers, testing and prodding. On his rounds, John will always appear to check in on him, make sure he at least promises to pretend to come to bed.

When he does appear in the middle of the night, crawling silently into John's bed and very rarely waking him with the movement, he rarely sleeps. No one finds it odd that Sherlock hardly ever visits the Slytherin dorms anymore (rather find it disconcerting when they don't see Sherlock for long periods of time in the Hufflepuff common room).

One night in mid-April, when John is making his way down to Sherlock's usual haunt on his midnight rounds, he hears an unfamiliar set of footsteps leading toward the Slytherin house. When John quietly extends the brightness from his wand, a familiar shape blooms in the light.

"Jim?" John asks incredulously. "What're you doing up? It's midnight, you know, I could dock you points." He probably won't, it's probably not hurting anyone, but it does help to occasionally reiterate his prefect standing.

Jim doesn't speak for a long moment. He looks tired, but his eyes are wide and alert (where has he seen that look? that all-examining, almost amused sort of gleam?). He moves his head slightly side to side, his eyes never leaving John.

"It was an emergency," he says calmly. "I'm sorry."

John shakes his head after a long moment. "Don't worry about it. Just get back to bed, all right?"

"What are you out and about for, John?" Jim asks almost too kindly. "Is Sherlock hanging around here, too?"

John lies. "No, he's back at Hufflepuff. It's just my rounds. Back to bed, all right?"

"All right," Jim replies, and he moves effortlessly away. That look in his eyes, it's boring into the back of John's head because he can't place it and there's something wrong and setting off all kinds of alarms but John just can't—

"John," a voice near his ear calls in a whisper, and the prefect turns sharply to illuminate Sherlock with the end of his wand. "I've figured it out. Come with me." And he encloses John's wrist with his fingers to pull him along into the dungeon.

Standing over the decimated trainers (John's heart sags a bit, seeing them splayed open like some dissected experiment), Sherlock waves a hand at the evidence. "Poisoned."

"His shoes?" John asks incredulously.

Sherlock nods. "You remember Jennifer Wilson?"

"Of course," John replies, and unbidden images from four years ago bloom behind his eyelids. "What, the same kind of poison?"

"Not exactly. But the same method is behind it. Muggle poison, not the sort of thing that would be noticed by the staff here. This time, it was enough to paralyze him in the water, whatever he was doing there. Whether he was out for a constitutional or forced into the lake, he couldn't support his own body in the water any longer, and he drowned struggling. It would look natural to anyone who hadn't any idea he'd been poisoned." He fixes John with a pointed stare. "Trelawney said he hadn't a scratch on him, now we know why."

Even though the memory twists in his heart, he can't help but grin. "How can you possibly be so brilliant?"

Sherlock Holmes doesn't usually blush, but he makes an exception on the odd occasion.

"So, we've solved it, then, right?" John asks tentatively. "I mean, he sent you the locker number, so he must've wanted you to find out about Carl. But he usually makes some sort of... threat along with it. You didn't get anything like that, did you?"

_I will burn the heart out of you._

Sherlock shakes his head slowly. "No. Just what you saw at Christmas. I can't imagine how we'll let him know we've done away with his little puzzle, but I have a feeling that he'll know, regardless." With one arm, he sweeps the detritus that used to be Carl's trainers into a bag, tying it tightly. "Bed, shall we?"

"Let's," John replies, and he slips his arm into Sherlock's elbow.

Three days later, as they pack for Easter holiday, John receives a letter from his mother. Sherlock looks up half-interestedly and he matches the frown on John's face. "Problem?"

"Yeah, Mum says she's sick. And she really wants me and Harry home this week." He glances up at Sherlock, whose face is milling with unheard thoughts. "It's just a week."

"It's some convoluted attempt to bridge an unbridgeable gap that she's set between the three of you," Sherlock says offhandedly. "She will try to change you, you know," he adds.

John frowns even deeper. "Yeah, but. Look, she's my mum." He sighs deeply, but it's family, and one simply can't ignore the urgent call home. "I have to. If she's really sick, she'll need us. Even if we can't stand each other." He's up on his toes to leave a kiss at the edge of Sherlock's mouth. "Just a week, all right?"

He doesn't like it, but he nods. "Yes, all right. But I'd like you to know that I'm cross about it."

"Arse," John mutters with a smile before he takes Sherlock's lips for a real kiss.

Sherlock decides that it's not worth the trip without John, and so he leaves his things at the foot of John's bed and he decides to stay. Just one week. (But for someone who hasn't been separated from someone for longer than 48 hours for the past ten months, a week feels like torture.) But it's fortuitous that John is gone and safe and he'll have something to occupy him while he's away, because Sherlock is about to do something monumentally stupid (and he knows it, and that's why he can't have John here).

He stands alone in the Owlery, peering up into the perches to see if he can find the familiar spotted owl (he knows he won't). "Hogsmeade," he says purposefully. "Midnight." And with that, he strides from the tower and his fingers are shaking and he doesn't know why.

Sherlock sneaks out of the castle with an hour left before the meeting in the village (and even if their mysterious friend hadn't been in the Owlery when he'd spoken the challenge, he'll have heard; that's what owls are for). He takes his time making his way to the outskirts of the village, keeping his eyes and ears alert for anything or anyone following him. He makes no attempt to hide himself, and he's not hindered. As if the way has been made clear for him ahead of time. He has time to ready himself, calm his nerves. This is it.

The windows are mostly darkened, save for the noise and light coming from the Hog's Head in the distance. He hasn't entered the town just yet, lingering on the edge and staring down the path in solid determination. Looking for a man, an owl, any sign that someone was lying in wait for him.

Then, there's a noise behind him. Sherlock turns, and twelve feet away up the path is John Watson, his hands casually in his pockets and staring at him as if nothing in the world were being turned upside-down.

"Evening," John says lightly.

Sherlock's eyes flick to the woods surrounding the path, and they land again on John, who hasn't moved even slightly.

"This is a turn-up, isn't it?" John says with a shrug. He's smiling, calmly and unnervingly. Sherlock's heart is beating at the walls of his throat.

"John?" he asks incredulously, and he still doesn't understand.

"Bet you think you're so clever, that you've figured it all out," John says, and his eyes are all wrong. "But you really haven't."

"Not even slightly," comes a new voice suddenly from the wood behind John. It's a terrifyingly familiar face, twisted into a sadistic grin as he holds his wand straight at John's back. Sebastian Moran.

There's something terrible clawing its way up Sherlock's throat and he batters it back down to keep his facade calm. "Moran," he says in a voice surprisingly level, "the man behind the wand, master of the Imperius Curse."

"Thanks, Holmes," Moran says with a harsh false coyness.

"But where's your master?" Sherlock wonders aloud, never taking his eyes off of John, who still hasn't moved of his own accord. "The one holding your leash? Making you cast these spells for him—" _Because he's too young to cast them himself_.

There's a flutter of wings in the darkness, and suddenly there's a figure standing behind Moran. And Sherlock's eyes strain desperately to see, but it's dark, and John is still standing there with someone else's smirk on his face.

The crescent, toothy smirk on the boy who emerges from Moran's shadow, takes one step around him and stands finally in the light of the moon. A familiar freckled face, whose head tilts like a curious animal's when the reaction spills from Sherlock's eyes.

"Hi, Sherlock," Jim Moriarty says with a quiet, lilting voice. "You remember me, don't you?"

The innocuous Slytherin boy wandering solitary through his five years at Hogwarts, dismissible as a shadow and nearly forgotten. Jim's head tilts even further.

"Jim? Jim from Slytherin?" His animated face tours a gambit of expressions before settling on curious. "Did I really leave such a fleeting impression? Then, I suppose, that _is _rather the point."

Sherlock doesn't even realize he has his wand out until he finds it shaking in his grip. Jim nearly laughs when he sees the wand pointed at his middle and he shakes his head. "Don't be silly, someone else is holding the wand. And I must warn you, darling, that you've got, oh, I'd say half a dozen more pointed at your and your boyfriend from the woods." He grins in delight, shrugging his neck into his shoulders gleefully. "Death Eaters, they're _so_ useful when they haven't got anything better to do."

"What do you want?" Sherlock asks plainly. His eyes flicker to John, and he can see the hints of mental struggle in the Hufflepuff's eyes.

"You've been so interesting, Sherlock," Jim says wistfully, gazing up at the sky with a long sigh, but then his head snaps back to Sherlock and those big eyes are on fire from the inside. "Until _now_. Until you _shacked up_ with your pet. Now you're on your way to boring." He inches closer to Sherlock, who grips his wand steadily and doesn't dare back down. "You could be so much more interesting. Like me. Like my father. People come to my family when they need something done. That's the way it's always been, and now it's my turn to play."

John's head twitches just minutely, fighting back.

"So, here's what I want, _my dear_."

John's eyes burn on the back of Jim's head, but he can't move, can't stop him.

"You can give yourself up in your pet badger's place and we'll have some fun, or..." And Jim smiles, and the air itself seems to chill around him. "Well, there are two more Unforgivables, and I certainly hope you make up your mind before we get through all of them. Seb, sweetheart?"

Moran grins like a wolf, and he snaps his wand at John's back. "_Crucio!_"

When John screams, something inside Sherlock breaks like fine glass. The fingers of his wand hand tremble and he points it harshly between Jim's eyes.

"Ah-ah, Sherlock," Jim breaks in with a snakelike smirk. "You're surrounded, remember?"

John's on his knees, convulsing, screaming so keenly it rings in Sherlock's ears and empties his mind of everything else. And suddenly Sherlock doesn't care that he's surrounded, that uncounted numbers of wands are trained on him and probably set to kill him. Because it's his John, and everything else certainly doesn't matter.

"_Expelliarmus!" _

Moran's wand flies from his hand at the same time half a dozen stunning spells hit Sherlock in the chest.

The last thing he remembers is John standing over him, spells reflecting off of his myriad shield charms because he's impossible to hit, and a sudden, bright hot flash of light.

* * *

Sherlock wakes up in a hospital bed. He sits up slowly, trying to remember how he got into a hospital bed, and where precisely the hospital bed is. Because he's not at Hogwarts in the Hospital Wing. No, this place is completely different. He's been here before, when his great aunt passed: St. Mungo's. There's a pain in his chest, and he vaguely remembers being Stunned several times over. Perhaps that's the sick feeling that's sitting in his stomach.

But then he remembers John, the boy in yellow and black standing over him as he lost consciousness, spell after spell bouncing off of him, unbreakable knight protecting his charge. And then—

Three Healers have to press Sherlock back into bed when he leaps up shouting for John. One of them informs Sherlock that he's been out for quite some time, thanks to some rather nasty Stunning spells, and they're working on getting him back into working shape. Another tells him that he'd be dead if it hadn't been for the amazing Shield charms cast by the other boy. Those charms had protected the two of them until the Aurors had arrived (and it had been supremely lucky that there had been so many underage wizards present and casting so many spells, or else they might not have been found in time).

And, of course, they had been led by Mycroft Holmes, who has somehow appeared right beside Sherlock's bed and is staring right down at him. Sherlock doesn't even acknowledge his older brother, simply frowns and demands: "I need to see John. Where's John?" Then, the feeling in his gut churning again, he adds, "Is John all right?"

They finally allow Sherlock into a wheelchair, and they push him down the hall (not _nearly_ fast enough) to see John.

"He's sleeping off the effects of a particularly brutal Cruciatus Curse," Mycroft says as he parks Sherlock's chair beside John's bed. The Slytherin runs his eyes all over John's rather pitiful-looking form under the hospital sheets, but the boy is breathing and that's all he needs. "Frankly, I'm surprised that he managed to fight off your attackers for so long. It must have been unbelievably painful for him; the Aurors say that they've not seen damage from the Cruciatus Curse like this since the first war."

Sherlock glances up when Mycroft offers him his handkerchief, and he has no idea why. And he finally realizes that there are unbidden, unfamiliar tears in his eyes, rolling down his face, and he didn't even know. Sherlock snatches the handkerchief up, stubbornly wipes his eyes, doesn't even acknowledge the fact that he's been crying.

"Jim Moriarty," Sherlock says, and his voice sounds utterly dreadful because of what's built up behind it, so he gives himself a moment to clear his throat. "Moriarty is who you're looking for. He's the man behind Moran. He orchestrated this. All of it."

Mycroft nods lazily, as though he already knows (of course he already knows, he's Mycroft Holmes). "St. Mungo's is a secure location, the two of you should be safe here, for the time being. I've made sure to supplement the security with a few tricks of my own, and I'll be available to you whenever you should need me."

"I won't say thank you," Sherlock says, afraid to touch John he looks so frail.

Mycroft smirks. "To me, I shouldn't expect it. To him? If I were you, I should never stop."

And he's gone just as easily as he came, leaving the two of them in mutual, wounded silence. When John finally wakes up seven hours later, the Healers have to wrench Sherlock off of him. And, when the commotion finally settles, Sherlock refuses to let John see him cry, so he fits them together at the mouth instead.

The Healer-in-Charge informs the two of them that John will need to stay at St. Mungo's for the remainder of the school year, and possibly into the summer in order to receive the best treatment. John knows it's best, and Sherlock knows just as well, but he continually and adamantly refuses to return to Hogwarts.

"I'll be fine," John assures him, stroking his hands generously through Sherlock's curls. "They're sending my exams by owl, and they say all the Moriartys have gone off into hiding in Switzerland or something."

"Then they can send my exams by owl, too," Sherlock pouts. "John, you must understand that I'm not leaving you. It's perhaps the safest place in London and I_—_" And John stops him by kissing him very hard.

So John has a chat with Mycroft, and very soon John has his own room at St. Mungo's, and Sherlock has made his little camp on the sofa in the corner (which is mostly for show, because most every night Sherlock curls up behind John and breathes into his ear until the Badger falls asleep in his arms).

"He'll be back," John says one night into the dark (because he knows Sherlock isn't sleeping; Sherlock rarely sleeps). "Jim, I mean."

"I know," Sherlock answers.

"And we have to be ready," John continues, and he's glad he can't see Sherlock's face, because this is going to be difficult.

"Yes, John, and I assume you've already formed some sort of plan."

John nods into the pillow, chews at his lip. "He used me to get to you."

Sherlock's grip tightens protectively around him. "What's your point?"

"This is all a big game to him. And he likes seeing us squirm, play the game according to his rules. So... we change the rules on him."

He knows the way Sherlock's eyes feel on him when they smile, when John's said something right. "And?"

"We stop playing. Jim wants you to go after him. He wants your attention, and he'll use me to get it if he has to. And he'll keep running if you give it to him. So. Don't do what he wants." And John finally shifts in the bed to face Sherlock (it hurts to move sometimes, but it's worth the look on Sherlock's face). "He wants you to go find him, so ignore him. Go back to Hogwarts." He runs his fingers through Sherlock's fringe, because this is the hard part. "He knows about us, and he'll use me if he has to. So, we let everyone think we're through. That I broke your heart."

Sherlock's eyes are quite wide, and for a moment John thinks he's said something Very Not Good. Then, there's a gleam in Sherlock's eyes, the bright flicker of an idea bursting into flame in his mind.

"You're brilliant," he mutters, and he meets John halfway for an eager kiss.

* * *

AN: WOW, UH. So much fun. So so much. I don't have much to say, so I'm gonna let it speak for itself (except to apologize to Laurie R. King for blatantly borrowing the plot from Beekeeper's Apprentice for the end of this chapter/next chapter. I really hope you all are enjoying this as much as I am, and I am TERRIFIED TO END IT, but it must end someday. Thanks to everyone, all the lovely wonderful people for reading so far, leave us some love and remember to STAY AWESOME!


	7. Year Seven

**.year seven.**

They keep John Watson in recovery at St. Mungo's through his birthday, so it's no surprise when his family comes to see him. It's a bit of a surprise to John, who hasn't seen his mother in a very long time and he has no idea who told them where he is. He sits directly up in bed when the Healers usher in his mother and sister, and at first he doesn't know if he should be angry or glad that they've come without warning. Sherlock is sitting cross-legged at the foot of John's bed, and the cards laid out on the sheet between them go flying when Anne Watson pulls them both into her arms.

She cries for a long time, smothers her son in kisses and keeps Sherlock locked in close to her. Harry told her everything, Mrs. Watson tells them once she's found her voice from the tears. _Everything_. There's a tense moment where Sherlock and John lock eyes, but Mrs. Watson shakes her head with a tearful smile between the both of them.

"You're happy, aren't you, Johnny?" his mother asks.

John certainly doesn't look it, when the tears prick up in his eyes. "Yeah, Mum."

She gives them both a kiss to the forehead as apology, and it's certainly enough for John, who laughs brightly through whatever he wipes from his eyes before anyone can see. And when John smiles, so does Sherlock.

The two stay with John all through his birthday, most of which is spent catching his mother up on what had brought him here to St. Mungo's in the first place. He's careful not to mention too many details (cutting himself off when Sherlock squeezes his fingers gently), and he knows it's for their sake as much as Sherlock's. Knowing too much could only be trouble for John's family, especially when he and Sherlock decide to throw their plan into action.

It hurts to know that, just when his mother has finally accepted him, that it won't matter anymore. _Until we get Jim_, John has to remind himself over and over (and Harry catches the sad, longing look in John's eyes long before anyone else does, and it's she that excuses both visitors from the room).

They still lie in bed together, but it's very quiet and subdued (because both of their minds are lost somewhere in the future, where lying in bed together simply can't happen), and they rarely talk. Run their fingers together, memorizing the motions and the maps of one another in their heads.

The Healer-in-Charge tells them that John can be released in two days, and it's finally time for the panic to set in. Neither of them show it as keenly as they feel it, but it's supremely evident to Sherlock (who has always been able to read every little note in John's eyes).

"You may not be completely safe," Sherlock warns. "Until he's sure that we're no longer together, you could still be in danger. And your family," he adds as an afterthought.

"Trace is gone, so I can defend myself if I have to," John replies, and he takes his time to leave his lips on Sherlock's knuckles.

Sherlock breathes into John's hair, and he's quiet for some time (etching a memory of the feel of his fingers through the fine hair at the base of John's neck). Then: "There could be some other way."

John shakes his head, extricates himself from his place burrowed against Sherlock's neck. "We can do this. He won't be expecting it, after what happened outside Hogsmeade. It'll make him come to _you_, and you can meet him on your own terms."

"We," Sherlock corrects, because after this is over, he is never _ever_ leaving John out of anything again. "_We_ can meet him on our own terms."

It's definitely the right thing to say, because John is looking up at him with a bright, sad, wonderful grin.

"I suppose this is goodbye for now," Sherlock says quietly, pressing his nose to the familiar spot by John's ear. John grips the back of Sherlock's neck, keeps him firmly close, and it feels as though the moment has snuck up on him. So he presses the side of his face to Sherlock's, just holding them together (and his fingers don't shake; he almost wishes they would). "John, I—" Sherlock cuts himself off horribly, and John can feel the unwonted shudder that goes through the boy pressed against him.

John calmingly smooths his hand down the back of Sherlock's head and neck, and he answers quietly. "I love you, too, Sherlock."

Sherlock buries his head into John's neck, grips back solidly and tries very hard not to break down. He does a very good job. He backs away, fixing his eyes on John's (and he hopes that John can read him even slightly, because he's saying everything with his eyes that he can't with his tongue). John nods, and he leans in the inch necessary to kiss Sherlock quietly, plainly, lovingly on the mouth. They leave it at that, because anything more and they'll both throw this plan out the window and ruin everything.

Now's the time to start this whole bloody mess, and John's stomach physically twists inside him and he falls into the role Sherlock has been teaching him. It takes effort to mold his face from the one he saves for Sherlock to the anger he has to convey. His heart fractures just a bit when Sherlock's face responds in kind, drooping and becoming the spurned man.

"That's it," John snarls loud enough for everyone in the hall (and maybe several rooms down) to hear. "Get the _hell_ out of my room! Get out!" And he raises it a decibel for effect (and there's a gleam of pride for him in Sherlock's eyes, behind the effortless mask he's raised), and when Sherlock rises from the hospital bed, his fingers are shaking. He wordlessly grabs his things and steps out into the hall, leaving the door ajar in his wake.

John takes the opportunity to limp to the doorway, watching Sherlock's slumping shoulders walk away. "If I see you again, it'll be too soon, you pompous fucking _git!" _John adds in a voice he doesn't feel like he should own, and it almost scares him. There's a stab somewhere in his chest when he sees Sherlock physically wince, but he doesn't turn. He slows, hesitating, but he doesn't turn. John steels his jaw from shuddering like it wants to. All he can do is slam the door with all the force in his good arm and spin on heel back to bed.

He curls up against Sherlock's pillow, holds it tightly, and doesn't sleep.

When his mother arrives to pick him up for discharge from St. Mungo's, she gives a quick look around for the other boy who should be at his side. John brusquely tells her to forget it, he's not here (and he's had to resist asking anyone where Sherlock has gone, because he's not supposed to care; the night spent without the long body curled around him was the longest night he's ever had).

"Johnny," his mother says seriously, and John can't look her sad eyes full on. "Sweetheart, what happened?"

This is his first test. He has to lie to his mum. There's an awful Something in his throat that he swallows against, but he certainly doesn't feel strong. "Just forget about Sherlock. He's an idiot who doesn't know when to shut his mouth." He tries to remember all the times the Slytherin had said something cruel to him (but Sherlock was never really cruel, just tactless, and John really isn't making this any easier on himself), and he focuses on their fourth year, trembling in anger when Sherlock asked if Anderson was right in calling him a Mudblood. Something weak trembles in John again.

"Look, Mum, does it matter?" It translates in his voice, quavering in attempts to be strong. "I just want to go home."

His mother drives angrily all the way home, and John doesn't speak, just sinks into his seat and stares hard out the window. He wishes it would rain, then at least he'd have the excuse of painful lethargy. But the sun is bright and cheerful and he absolutely hates it.

For some time, he plays righteous anger and brooding silence (and it helps that he doesn't want to talk to anyone for the first utterly painful week of separation). Harry sends owls telling him that it will get better, and he ignores them. His mother tells him that she will go to the Holmes Estate herself if he wants her to, so that she can demand an explanation. He does very well not to tear up immediately (at the sudden fierce love from the woman who he had all but abandoned for an entirely too-long span of months) and tells her that really, he'll be all right.

Some nights, lying utterly alone and unable to sleep without the sound of familiar breath in his ear, John closes his eyes and imagines the quiet notes of a violin.

Then, it's not so hard (because he can still see Sherlock when he closes his eyes, and most of the time, that's enough to keep him from knocking his head into a wall or abandoning it all and Apparating right in the middle of Sherlock's room). He still limps from room to room (because the pain is mostly gone, but every time he thinks about that grin on Moran's face, Jim's high-pitched voice, the look of horror on Sherlock's face, there's a stab in his leg and it's hard to walk), but he's moving around and helping his mother, practicing for Quidditch, being mundane and horribly normal.

And she looks at him with sad eyes, because she loves him.

* * *

John stands alone on the platform, steam swirling and hissing as the train settles in. He's not really alone, because the buzzing of students is everywhere up and down the platform, but he doesn't see the one he wants the most. And even he does, he can't sweep in and kiss him senseless like he wants to.

(And there's something horrible in his stomach when he realizes that he's been thinking more about try-outs for the new Beater than he has about Sherlock or Jim.)

Soo Lin appears and gives him a bright smile, which he reflects largely with his own, giving her a tight hug when she points to the Head Girl badge on her chest. And before she can say anything more, they're swarmed by the rest of the team. All of them talking excitedly at once, because everyone's heard about what happened outside Hogsmeade (how could they not? John had been hospitalized since Easter and Mycroft had made sure that visitors were to a minimum, thanks to Moran's prowess with the Imperius Curse).

He tells them the story as well as he can, leaving out the details like the pain and horror he felt when Sherlock turned to see him when he wasn't himself. The adrenaline pumping like salt water in his veins as he ignored the undying pain through every nerve to protect Sherlock, protect him at any cost.

"Jimmy seemed like such a nice boy," Amanda notes (and she'd know Jim, she spent half her time in Slytherin with that Van Coon boy), but her face is hard and gathered against him, like a storm. "I can't believe anyone could do this to you, John."

They feel the hollow absence of Violet and Mike, and most assuredly Carl (who they're all sure they'll never forget), and for a moment they just press together on the platform and remember.

Then Alex Woodbridge (growing to be a fine Keeper and a brilliant Astronomer on top of all that), takes a look around for the other obvious missing member that everyone else has failed to mention, and he asks, "Where's Sherlock?" Then, even worse, is the noise in the back of Alex's throat when he spots the boy in question.

It's been two months since John's seen that long, lean figure that stands alone at the edge of the platform. And Sherlock looks awful. John knows that Sherlock rarely sleeps a full night, but at least he slept. But now there's a hollow sort of sleepless look in Sherlock's face, and if anything he looks even thinner. His straight shoulders are stooped, and the figure so normally clean-cut and sharp seems all sad curves and bends. And then Sherlock turns his head (because Soo Lin has called out in a cheerful voice), and John's throat seizes up.

Because Sherlock has always been able to hide whatever emotion he'd wanted to, but there's no mistaking the look of heartbreak all over that face.

But John steels himself like he knows he has to, and his hackles raise when his teeth lock together. "Don't talk to me about him," he warns, and the team's eyes are suddenly all fixed on him.

"John?" Soo Lin prompts.

And John loses it, and his voice carries down the platform loud enough to stop wide-eyed First Years in their tracks. "There goes Sherlock Holmes, God's gift to wizards. Well, you can _have him!"_ The last comes out even more harshly, and it burns his constricting throat. He rounds on the Badgers by him, steaming. "If any one of you tells him the password, I'll—"

"We won't, if you don't want us to," Andy breaks in, "but what _happened_, John?"

Because they all love the both of them, and John can see four more hearts ready to break.

"He's the most self-centered prat the world's ever suffered, and I can't believe I saved his life," John snarls, and it's really not like him at all (but worst of all, there are angry tears in his eyes and he doesn't know why). "No one matters one jot to him, you know that? He plays a good game, and he can fool damn near anyone, but all he cares about is _himself_."

He whirls back around to stare Sherlock down, and the Slytherin is waiting for it (takes the look in John's eyes like a physical blow). John doesn't say anything more, and the team follows him onto the train and out from under the sad eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

John can't even look out the window from the prefect's car, even the movement makes him sick. So he pins his eyes on the ceiling and tries not to replay the words in his head. When he patrols the train corridor, when it's empty of everyone but himself, John pauses for just a moment outside the nearly empty compartment, where a dark-curled figure sits alone with a yellow tabby sleeping on the seat beside him.

When Sherlock looks up (that horrible, sick look on his face lightening for one brilliant second), John presses his hand to the glass. Sherlock doesn't smile, but it's all there in his eyes. Then, John steps away and moves on.

After he and Soo Lin have led the new First Years to their dorm, John leans heavily into the door frame and he heaves a dry sob that catches painfully (one that's been pent up far too long and it nearly knocks him off his feet). Soo Lin holds him up, holds his head steady to stare into lost eyes, and once she has him, he loses all sense of control. And he cries.

She takes him back to the common room, sits him by the fire and strokes his hair calmly as the team gathers around and they simply stay. They don't try to sugar John with false promises or meaningless mantras of _it will be all right_. But they're Badgers, and all of them will see a problem to its end, no matter how hard they have to work at it. Together.

No one uses Sherlock's chair.

He's back in character once he's slept through the night (because seeing Sherlock again after such a long time was so much harder than he'd thought it would be), and John is both a little frightened and extremely proud of the Hufflepuffs that bare their proverbial teeth protectively when they see Sherlock in the Great Hall the morning after.

The try-outs for Beater are surprisingly successful, and John's made his decision even before the candidates have left the air. Dangerously red-headed Third Year Jabez Wilson (who rarely ever raises his head from his work in the common room) can hit a Bludger like a freight-train's engine is powering his arm, and John wonders against hope if they'll have any chance at the Cup this year. He's halfway through a note to Sherlock detailing his excitement before he remembers that he's supposed to hate the boy, and his face falls as he crumples it up and throws it into the fire.

They make a protective shield around him, and he's almost never alone (even Jabez, who's new to the team, has a quick and fierce loyalty). And he's sure that, without them, he would have buckled to the pressure a long time ago. But he walks through the Great Hall with one of them beside him, his eyes on every window in case he catches the briefest glance of that spotted owl.

It's long, cold months that pass in silence, and every time he wonders how Sherlock is passing the time, there's a hollow pain in his gut that grows and grows. Because John has the team behind him, the House behind them, to hold him up if he falls behind or needs a shoulder to lean on. Sherlock is completely and irrevocably alone.

* * *

What kills him most is the waiting. Not knowing whether Sherlock's got any correspondence from Jim, or Moran, or even Mycroft. Not knowing whether Anderson is throwing insults or punches (and the thought of it makes John grit his teeth and growl), if the Slytherins are mocking him for losing a Hufflepuff. There's a horrible burning spot in his chest when he lies alone in his bed and thinks about it. So he tries not to.

It helps that the N.E.W.T.s are staring them down over the horizon, and when he's not reminding Amanda how to fly straight, he's trapped in a fortress of books and scrolls and studying dutifully and diligently with fellow Badgers quiet at his side. But he doesn't even know if this plan of his is working. There's no word from from Jim to _him_, of course, so how could he possibly know? And it's driving his crazy to think that all of this could be for nothing.

Then, one night in the freezing middle of December, doing rounds on the seventh floor, John finds a door he can't remember ever having been there. He takes a cautious step in, shines his wand into dark corners, and finally realizes where he is. He's read about the Room of Requirement, but he never thought that he'd need it enough to find it.

This plan is hopelessly stupid. It could definitely ruin everything they'd been working for, but he's still going to try it. Because he's a stupid boy and he's in love and he desperately wants to help. John finds him in the library, at his usual table far from the influence of the staring and the whispers, and for too long a time he just hides behind a bookcase and watches. Watches the way Sherlock's fingers hold the quill, the quick movements of his eyes, how pale he's gotten, the unfamiliar and seemingly permanent sad twist his lips have taken. John grabs a book from the nearby shelf, because if he doesn't do this now, he's going to remember how stupid it is.

On his way past Sherlock's table, John accidentally trips and spills his handful of books all over the floor. Sherlock looks up painfully when John shouts at him for casting a Tripping Jinx, deducts five points from Slytherin, and stomps away. Sherlock picks up the tiny scrap of parchment the Badger has left behind under a dropped library book. It only reads: _7th floor, 12:30._

The Hufflepuff is there fifteen minutes early, and his heart is hammering painfully in his throat. He's absolutely sure that Sherlock won't be there, because he knows it's stupid and it throws their plan into jeopardy, and he knows Sherlock is smart enough to ignore him. But he can hope. He passes by three times, thinking exactly the thoughts he'd had the night before (but a hundred times quicker because he's excited and frightened and trying to breathe like a normal human), and finally steps through the door. Sherlock is waiting.

The room's made itself into something almost exactly like Sherlock's room at the Holmes Estate, and Sherlock is sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed (and everything is just like that summer ages ago, even the expectant line of the Slytherin's shoulders). Everything but Sherlock's eyes says _This is a bad idea_. His eyes say _I've missed you so much_.

John knows that he should be asking about Jim, whether there's been any contact, if the Slytherins have been horrible to him. But there are no words that appear when called for, and he's suddenly striding across the room (he's _running_, and Sherlock stands just as quickly), meeting in the middle with a crash of limbs that neither of them cares about. Fast and sudden, they're pressed up against one another, pawing and grabbing at familiar holds neither of them have forgotten, John's fingers clamping behind Sherlock's head to yank him down and fit their open mouths together.

(And it had been John's plan from the start, but he's the one that needs this the most, needs Sherlock's mouth soothing against his, knowing insistent pressure to assure him. He needs it to keep his heart from chipping away.)

Then, where it had been quick, hot breaths panting together in sudden and tangible greed, it just as suddenly stops. And they're frozen, John's fingers stitched into Sherlock's curls, their lips brushing with every long breath. John's eyes are clamped shut like he's in the worst pain of his life. Worse than Clara's wand deep in his shoulder, than Moran's curse. And a sob sticks in his throat—he won't let it through, but Sherlock can feel it against his own chest. He grips John tighter, and there's a protective flare that lights up in him that he never even knew he had.

"John," and his voice is weaker than he means it. The Badger utters something almost like a whimper, and he tucks his head under Sherlock's chin, shivering. Sherlock's fingers dig into John's shoulders, can't hold him close enough. "John, I can't do this. Not if it does this to you."

"No," John pleads into Sherlock's neck, "no, we can do this." He presses his mouth to the taller boy's throat, and they both give a shudder. "This was a terrible idea. If we can just keep away from each other, we can do this."

"But we're already here," Sherlock reminds him, as if John could forget (forget the way Sherlock's fingertips are scrubbing through the hair at the base of his skull). "If we're going to ruin this, we may as well do it thoroughly."

And then John is looking at him in a way that fills his insides with fire and heat that burns all the way to his toes. "God, _yes_," John says very quietly.

They've tried sloppy and fast before (and John still plays it in his head right up to the interruption more times than he'll admit to), but this is different. It's quiet and it's subdued. The movement of John's fingers through Sherlock's hair, not gripping or tugging but soothing; the long, languid kisses, more give than take, and the quiet breath they share; working buttons undone one by one, no rush whatsoever as John splays his fingers over warm, pale skin stretched over ribs and Sherlock counts his way slowly up John's back vertebra by vertebra.

When Sherlock's fingers press at John's belt buckle, the shorter one nods with an odd hitch in his breath, and he lines Sherlock's throat with kisses as the Slytherin unthreads the belt from his trousers. They step out of their shoes, move back as one until Sherlock's legs bump lightly against the edge of the bed. There's a brief dance of hands at their waistlines (John's square fingers tracking up Sherlock's hipbones to elicit a gracious shiver), and then they're kicking off trousers and socks and John makes the briefest mental note to remember the right tie this time around.

It's nearly surreal, Sherlock's curls haloed around his head on a bed that's not really his bed, in the middle of the night, at Hogwarts, in a room that no one can find but whoever needs it most. It's Sherlock's first time, and John doesn't have to tell him for Sherlock to know that it's John's too. (But neither really cares when hands meet flesh and backs arch and there's a myriad of new and interesting noises from both mouths.)

It must be some time long into the night, or nearly morning, with John smoothing Sherlock's sweat-soaked curls from his eyes, that John remembers why he really wanted to see Sherlock (awkward teenage fumbling notwithstanding). "Is it working?" he asks vaguely, because his brain is tugging between sleep and still-present memories of Sherlock's legs locked around him.

"You must be more specific," Sherlock murmurs, his eyes half-closed and his fingers still playing up John's spine like chords on a violin.

John really can't find it in himself to bring up the name while they're still naked and tangled together and trying to breathe normally. "Any news?" he settles on.

Sherlock must realize that this meeting has to be twofold, but he can't help the dissatisfied grunt he mutters into John's hair. "Nothing," he says finally.

Something in John's middle steels up, calcifies. "You think he doesn't even _know_? Hell, Sherlock, you think we could've been—"

Sherlock silences him with his own mouth, however briefly, before continuing. "Nothing in the traditional sense. No mysterious letters, no one sent to speak to me under the Imperius Curse." (Sherlock doesn't miss the shudder that passes through John, just as John doesn't miss the protective curl of fingers around him.) "But he knows. His spies are easy enough to spot, once you know what to look for."

When John self-consciously half-turns to look into the room, Sherlock brings the Hufflepuff back to him, wrapping both arms around him to secure them close together. "Owls," he murmurs in John's ear. "More than usual, collecting data. He knows. And you're doing brilliantly."

"Wish I could help," John pouts into Sherlock's chest. "They're not hurting you, are they?" He asks suddenly. "The Slytherins?"

"Don't worry about it, John."

"_Sherlock_."

"No. I've run out of ways to amuse them on the physical abuse front. And you know how well Anderson's taunts work on me."

"I could make it look like an accident," John mutters sleepily against him.

Sherlock smiles into John's hair, holds him close and lets the silence sink in for what feels like a long time before he says: "I miss you."

And John knows he can't stay. His throat seizes up, and the separation is going to have to be quick again, and he hates the feeling of being torn away from somewhere he's sure he never wants to leave.

"We can't do this again," John says, and it hurts, but he's glad he's said it. "If we're gonna see this plan through, we can't be sneaking up here every other night and—this has to be the last time. Until we get him."

Sherlock presses a fierce kiss to John's temple, and the words spill out in a weak voice that really shouldn't belong to Sherlock Holmes. "You know, don't you?"

"Yeah." Holding both sides of Sherlock's face gently, their foreheads and noses touching. "I love you, too, Sherlock."

They leave cautiously, at specifically-timed intervals, from separate exits. John ignores the owl perched innocuously on the banister of the main staircase. Soo Lin is still awake by the fire when John returns, and he does his best not to look as thought he's just come back from shagging the person he's supposed to revile.

"Long patrol?" she asks with no hint of recognition in her voice. She looks him over. "Did you go out to see Sherlock?"

To John's immense credit, he doesn't buckle. He's back into character so easily it almost scares him. "Yeah, I saw him all right. Out after curfew like he owns the whole castle. And he thinks he can patch things up, so I got in a row. Happy?"

Soo Lin frowns, and she's really not, but it works. She doesn't ask again. But even if he has to snarl and lie to the whole House, nothing can stop the brilliant smile blooming on his face as he shoves it into his pillow, closes his eyes, and plays the whole night over again until he falls asleep.

* * *

John's first Christmas holiday back at home in years is subdued. His mother is brighter because John seems happier, but there's no cheer in her. Harry stops by for some time, and she's changed so much that John hardly recognizes her. There's a sort of fatigue and despondence in her; she's given up.

The one thing that John does notice over the course of the holiday is the number of owls. He only notices because he's the only one looking for them (and when he casually attempts to broach the conversation with his mother, she says she hasn't noticed any but Toby hanging about). On the first day, he counts seven of them, swooping by at different times through the night and day, sometimes even perching nearby to get a good look in on the Watson home. Even just three days later, the number has dwindled to two, and two days before Christmas Eve, there are none at all.

It has to mean something's working. Jim has taken John off of surveillance, which must mean he's buying into their separation. He doesn't allow himself to get too excited about it, because every now and then, he'll see a dark shadow overhead (one sentry every other day, to be sure), but it _has_ to be working.

He wants to tell Sherlock. John wants to find some way of letting him know that Jim's owls are so few and far between that he could be shagging Sherlock right up against his window and no one but the neighbors would be any wiser for it (and the thought turns him redder than he'd thought and it takes him some time to calm himself back from it). But who knows if the slack in security on John's part meant the piling upon on Sherlock's end? Maybe John could write in code, use a friend's owl. Maybe he could use a pseudonym and speak so vaguely that—

And an owl flutters up to John's window, tapping its beak eagerly on the glass to be let inside. It has a letter, and it's for him. His heart is hammering something awful in his throat, because it's the Holmes owl. It's from Sherlock.

_John,  
I know we've had our arguments, but I like to think we can put that behind us for the holidays. Mummy would like to see you, Mycroft as well. Perhaps we can talk things over. If convenient, please come for Christmas Eve. If inconvenient, come anyway.  
SH _

John knows Sherlock's letters well enough to know that this wasn't what he'd meant at all. He had something important to tell John, and it would be the perfect opportunity to further their ruse (especially in front of the entire Holmes clan, who hated John enough as is; the news of their split would be all the rage if they managed a spectacular row in the middle of all that). He grins conspiratorially, and, flipping the note over, he writes the reply on the back.

_Fine.  
JW _

He tells his mother he'll be away for Christmas Eve, and he should be back for breakfast Christmas morning (if not sooner, he has no plans of spending the night at the Holmes Estate, it would be far too tempting). He plays the hopeful suitor, however, and has packed an overnight bag for the illusion. For a brief moment, her eyes light with hope, and he hates to snuff it so soon, so he lets her believe that this will be the rekindling of something.

Once he's to a safe point outside of town, John Apparates to the long, familiar drive of the Holmes Estate. It's almost like walking into a picture he hadn't thought to look at in ages, and a cold feeling delves into the pit of his stomach. He wonders if this isn't a mistake.

He doesn't look up at the owl perched in one of the trees lining the drive, just as it pretends not to notice him.

John knocks at the large front door, and he's never come on his own before. It feels even stranger not to have Sherlock at his elbow here, of all places. Staring wide-eyed and alone up at the footman who opens the door for him and gestures him into the wide, warm space. It's the color of champagne this year, decorated sparsely and neatly. John doesn't let the footman take his bag, because he knows he'll need all the time given to him to speak to Sherlock.

There are few bodies standing in the open so early in the evening, but those who are turn their heads and stare. He knows by now how to read a Holmes' eye. They hadn't expected _him_ to be back, not the little ragamuffin half-blood in his baggy jumpers. He nearly wants to puff up and tell them just how he feels about Sherlock and how, someday, he's going to take that boy away from all of this.

But that's not his part to play. He visibly sags under their gaze, letting their haughty eyes penetrate his shields and wear him down. He doesn't look any of them in the eye, a kicked dog making his way through their legs. And then he runs into Sherlock.

Both of them are startled by the sudden appearance of the other, that's no ruse. It's the walls that both of them throw up instantly (walls that come a bit too easily for comfort) that lie. John stands taller, frowns oddly, and Sherlock mashes his brows together in sad confusion. There's an entire conversation going on under their movements, and none of their spectators are versed enough in their language to understand. (_Are you all right? They've not been awful to you? Do you know how much I miss you? Shall we get out of their way? Your place or mine?_)

Sherlock holds out his hand warily, a temporary truce. John nods stiffly, and he shakes Sherlock's hand a bit harshly. Sherlock turns quickly and heads up the stairs, and John follows with some considerable distance between them. Again, with it being crowded as it is at the Holmes Estate, the two will have to presumably share a room (something John knows he can't do, because one night with Sherlock is enough to ruin this whole thing), and John tries to play it off as being offended.

(The only person they don't fool is Mummy, who is the cleverest of all of them, but she somehow knows to play along.)

For the first few seconds in the door, John just stands staring at the bed—because it hadn't been this bed but something very similar on which he'd finally got his hands on Sherlock. And when he turns back to the door, it's familiar bright eyes smiling back at him.

John drops his bag in the middle of the floor and is over in two strides. And they stand there, inches apart and not touching despite the magnetic sort of pull the both of them feel. Just sharing the same space, breathing the same air, and John shudders happily.

"Your room's not watched?"

"Temporary lull, and the curtains are closed," Sherlock answers, and he ducks even closer (lips not brushing, but they may as well be).

John makes an oddly needy sound, and he desperately wants to complete their circuit, but he manages to say: "We should be talking, not snogging. Besides, if we take too long, it'll be suspicious."

Sherlock gives a dissatisfied grunt, but he knows that John is right. So he backs away against the door—still close, but safe.

"My owls are gone," John begins for them. "Well, there's still one that flies over now and then, but it never stops. I think Jim's cut me out of the picture."

Sherlock's eyes brighten even further (and it's strange in the sallow, sad face he's grown into since their separation in the summer). "His father's dead," Sherlock says briefly.

"What?"

"Jim's father, Professor Moriarty. Well, former professor."

"Hogwarts?"

"No, a Muggle university teacher. Mathematics. The perfect disguise for a wizarding crime syndicate mafioso, wouldn't you say?"

John's eyes flash with _you dramatic bastard_. "So, he's dead? How d'you know, and what's that got to do with the owls?"

"The Prophet," Sherlock remarks unremarkably. "Since our encounter in Hogsmeade, they've had a field day with the name of Moriarty, and now that one of them is dead, it's made the front page. I'm surprised you didn't notice."

"A bit busy, actually," John butts in, nearly closing them together again, his eyes on Sherlock's neck. "Go on."

"Jim must have taken the news very badly," Sherlock continues, his voice lowering and damn if it doesn't make John want him more. "Your watch is gone, and mine has been halved since the news came. This is good, with you out of the picture. It means he'll be focused on me, and the wreck you've made me—"

"Hey," John chides, and he finally breaks with protocol and brushes his hand at Sherlock's hip, and they nearly buck into one another.

Sherlock shuts his eyes against the swimming in his head. "This will be the final nail, so to speak. An attempted reconciliation gone sour, with you storming out and me irrevocably heartbroken."

"I won't like it," John says (and he wants to shove his cold hands under Sherlock's shirt and warm them against his back and put his mouth everywhere).

"You're not supposed to," Sherlock says, and that's the end of it. "Jim will come out of hiding soon enough, when he thinks I'm weak enough to gloat over. That's your time to shine, John."

"Could be dangerous," John murmurs, wanting this moment to last longer than it can.

"Yet here you are." Sherlock smiles brilliantly.

They start an argument not long after, and they make sure that it's obscenely loud. They make it down to the party, but both are frowning and John throws obscene gestures across the room when Sherlock looks over to him. John pretends to be drinking too much, and he's fairly sure they're not fooling Mycroft either, but it hardly matters if Mycroft knows.

Finally, it erupts in the middle of the party, when John shouts "Oh, I've had _enough_ of you!" and he shoves Sherlock hard to the marble floor. Activity halts. Sherlock lies in a wounded huddle for several long moments as murmuring starts up around them. "You can have all this and shove it right up your arse," John spits. "Like you could even _care_."

And even when Sherlock shoves himself off the ground and bolts up the stairs, John is shouting abuse after him, line after scathing line, and the rest of the Holmes clan is too scandalized to say or do anything. And John is very lucky that he hadn't packed anything fragile or valuable in his overnight bag, because Sherlock reemerges from his room to chuck it over the railing from the second floor. It hits the marble with a smack and John growls a string of curses.

When he throws his bag over his shoulder and raises his head to give one more more parting obscenity to the Slytherin's face, John can't bring himself to do it. Because Sherlock's angry face is clouded with tears and threatening to buckle into a sob. But he's strong and that's a proud face that stares down at him (despite the lines tracking down his cheeks and chin).

John's heart feels like it's pumping fine glass instead of blood, and his face almost betrays him. But he sets his jaw (his teeth feel like they might crack under the pressure), spins on heel and stomps out the front door. When he arrives back at his own little house in Guildford, his mother doesn't expect him, and she looks up with worried, glassy eyes.

"I don't want to talk about it," John snarls in a voice that should feel stronger. He slams his door when he gets there.

The image keeps him up at night, face buried helplessly in his pillow, the look of irrevocable heartbreak on Sherlock's face. He never wants to see Sherlock Holmes cry again, because he's not sure he'll be able to live through it again.

* * *

The time after Christmas is the hardest, and it's not because John is sad and pining and holding himself up in every doorway he passes to sigh deeply. It's because he isn't. He's getting a lot of good studying in. The team is playing better than he can remember since before Carl has been gone (but no one forgets, no one will ever forget), and Amanda has finally got the hang of flying in formation and they feel unstoppable (they absolutely destroy Gryffindor in mid-February and John hopes against all hope for the Quidditch Cup his last year). John's sleeping better, better than he has in years. Because he's not answering owls in the middle of the night, or exploring Sherlock's neck with his tongue long into the morning.

He eats his breakfasts with the team, laughs when Jabez makes a joke (who knew the introverted ginger boy was so personable?), doesn't ever turn to look across at the Slytherin table. He walks the halls with Soo Lin and they talk about what they'll be doing after school (she wants to work with antiquities, even if she has to do it with Muggles; John tells her that St. Mungo's has already contacted him about an apprenticeship next summer).

On the occasion that he and Sherlock pass in the hall, John usually ignores him. Once or twice, Sherlock raises his eyes as if he's about to speak and John shoots him down before he has the chance.

One morning, their shoulders not even brushing, John hears Sherlock mutter under his breath: "_Mudblood_."

John rounds on him, eyes wide in shock and his throat is clogged up with everything begging to burst out. "_What_ did you say?" John shouts, and it's like a shot.

Sherlock turns slowly, and his eyes are dark and hollowed out. "You heard me," he says, but it's strained.

Suddenly, John has him by the collar, slamming Sherlock up against the wall, and his wand is pressed right into the underside Sherlock's chin. And Sherlock actually looks scared, because John is gritting his teeth and pinning him for real. That's not an act, not even slightly. Sherlock's frightened breath catches and he locks his eyes with John's.

And it hits John low in the stomach. There's a horrified moment of _Oh God_ that flashes across his face, and he hopes that Sherlock knows. John backs off abnormally fast. He's breathing hard and it hurts because his throat is so tight, and he hates this.

"Not worth my time," John snaps weakly. His knees are shaking as he stalks away, and before Soo Lin can catch up with him, he tells her that he'll see her in Charms, he needs to have a break.

John dry-heaves in the first stall he can get to in the boys restroom. His stomach is twisting and he feels hot from head to toe, and absolutely disgusted with himself. He'd wanted to hurt Sherlock so badly, shoot him with something that would sting and show _him_ who he should call a dirty Mudblood. But it was Sherlock, for God's sake, and he didn't mean it. John's throat contracts again, and his stomach drops and he desperately wants to vomit.

It's going too far, but he knows Sherlock wouldn't want him to give up. Not even after that.

He comes to Charms three minutes late, and no one says a thing for the ashen look on John's face.

It's nearly April again, a Saturday, and John has gone with several of the Hufflepuffs to Hogsmeade for a break. It's bright and fairly warm, and the grass should be coming out green soon enough, and John just needs to get his mind off of the plan and back on his studies—hell, the examiners will be here in another month and a half, and he doesn't feel half prepared. A day out should do it, and he asks if he can stroll a bit on his own. He won't be far, he assures Soo Lin, just wants to stretch his legs at a different pace.

"Be careful," she tells him worriedly.

John smirks. "From what?" And he's off on his own, hands in his pockets and already lost in thought.

The path toward the Shrieking Shack is clear of students and remarkably quiet, considering how close it actually is to the little town swarming with kids eager to be out of the castle. John kicks at a rock, looking off at the ramshackle house with little interest. There's a Ravenclaw following him.

When he turns to confront the watcher, he's more than a bit surprised to see Sherlock's gray eyes staring out from between a Ravenclaw's scarf and a overlarge cap that really doesn't suit him at all. The boy, from what John can see, is burned and cut, and the right side of his face is already swelling up.

John doesn't have time to ask what happened and what he's doing here before Sherlock smirks. "Moran tried to kill me," Sherlock says with a daft grin. "Don't you see? That's good news!"

"Doubt it," John says urgently, and he forgets all the rules and steps right into Sherlock's space to throw the scarf and hat quickly away to examine Sherlock up close. "What the hell happened? And skip the details, thanks."

Sherlock smirks, winces with a hiss when John eases aside his curls to examine the long red line leading from his ear to his scalp. "Moran cursed my inkwell to explode. My _inkwell_, what sort of idiot curses an—" He cuts the rant short at John's serious glare. "Well, obviously it had to be Moran working on his own to cut me out of the picture. Jim wouldn't try to kill me off from afar, oh no, he'd need to see me face to face and gloat."

"So you think it's a good idea to show up in Hogsmeade and fetch me?" John asks, but he can't help the stir of excitement in old coals in his heart.

"Well, what use is a trap if you're not there to spring it?" Sherlock asks. "Jim will come and find me soon enough, and you'd best be ready."

"I'll kill him if I have to," John says, and the growl in his voice is enough to convince Sherlock that he will. And John steels himself by fixing Sherlock with a fierce kiss.

They're interrupted by the slow sound of clapping.

"Well _done_, boys," says the chillingly familiar voice from somewhere nearby.

John rounds quickly on the voice, wand raised, but there's the quick sound of a spell and it goes sailing from his hand before he's even found a target.

"And I've still got my wand on him, Sherlock," the voice continues, "so you'd better throw yours down, too. There's a good boy."

They see the grin from between the trees before they see the boy. He looks almost as weathered and beaten as Sherlock does, and there's a manic sort of tilt to the smile that wasn't there in the calm, collected face burned into their memories. And it's somehow even worse, looking into those eyes in broad daylight.

"I have to say, you had me convinced for a while," Jim says conversationally, bending to pick up their wands and hold them loosely in his off-hand. "Come on, you two, get moving." He holds the wand with a straight and unmoving hand, trained and steady.

"Yes, all right, you've got me," Sherlock says calmly. "Why don't we go and leave John out of our petty feud?"

Jim giggles. It's a horrible line of high-pitched squeals, and he cocks his head as if at a pet begging for attention. "I might have, yesterday. You'd been so clever about the whole thing, but you slipped at the finish line. So sad for you, all the heartache for nothing. Oh, no, Johnny's obviously far too embroiled in the matter, he _must_ stick around."

He makes a motion with his wand, and, at first neither of them move. Jim's head sways dangerously from side to side, and his grin flickers into a scowl. "I'd get going, gents, I know a fair share of curses myself. _Move_." And the last isn't shouted, it's _hissed_, horrible and alien from lips that sneer.

Sherlock moves first, and John follows him dutifully. They don't touch, don't dare. Jim follows behind, his wand aimed square at the middle of John's back. They move up the path and through the fence to the Shrieking Shack. Jim gives another pensive laugh and murmurs, "Lovely place for a murder."

Once he's marched them up the stairs and into the room nearest the landing, he orders them to stop and face him. John and Sherlock wear nearly identical masks of stoicism, which Jim matches with his toothy smile.

"Not too close," he warns them. "Step away there, Johnny. He's such a good dog, isn't he, Sherlock."

Sherlock bites his tongue, because that wand is still pointed threateningly at John.

"Good," Jim says softly, almost fondly. "Learned your lesson last time, didn't you? Oh, _Sherlock_," he whines, and now he looks almost like the little First Year that John met on the train all those years back, big angelic eyes gazing innocently out at the world. "Why couldn't we have worked it out? We could've been something great. I'm so much cleverer than your Badger, I really can't see what it is you find in him."

Sherlock's eyes flick to John's, as if to say _I was right about the gloating_.

John's shoot back _Not the time, idiot._

"Well, I suppose our time is out, because I've really had enough of trying to impress you. So, I'd like to kill you." He shrugs as easily as if he were taking the rubbish to the curb, not casting the killing curse.

Sherlock's gray eyes flash up to look Jim straight through. "If I do, if I let you win and let you have me, you must let John go."

"Sherlock—" John gives a strangled, hurt noise.

"Promise," Sherlock bites, and the shack is suddenly very quiet.

The Jim grins, tilting his head at the interesting turn of events. "So you'll come to me willingly, and we Apparate out together, and your Badger can walk away unharmed. Interesting, if not a bit _predictable_. All right, if that's what you want."

And he holds his hand out to Sherlock, as casual as a handshake. Sherlock takes his first step forward, and John makes a desperate, jerky movement toward him, but Jim simply points his wand in John's direction.

Sherlock hisses, "John, stay where you are. Don't be an idiot." Calms himself, takes a breath, and, turning his head only slightly to look back at the boy over his shoulder, fixes John with eyes that he hasn't seen in months. "You know, don't you?" He asks at the last.

John's throat pulls tight, and he feels his knees go numb from the shock of it all. Jim and Sherlock splinter into a hundred reflections of themselves in his eyes, and goddammit, why is he crying? "Yeah," he manages around the Something in his throat. "Yeah, Sherlock."

Sherlock turns back to Jim, whose grin has gone almost half-moon in its width and brilliance. His big eyes drinking in the lovely anguish he's causing, and his hand still hovering between them, waiting to be taken.

Then: "It's too bad your father can't be around for this."

Something in Jim's eye twitches. "What?"

And there's a flare of hope deep in John's stomach.

"Your father," Sherlock enunciates slowly, as if to a child. "It's a shame he got himself killed before he could see your victory. Killed by an idiot mistake, too, it's a shame."

"It wasn't a _mistake_," Jim snaps suddenly, and the air feels stale (as if a fire has sucked all the life from it). "It was _you_. You and your tongue wagging our name to your Ministry and your brother—oh don't think I don't know about him, I've got his number too, sweetheart. If you hadn't sicced your dogs on our heels—"

"I didn't say he died by accident," Sherlock cuts in, and he can see the rage growing in Jim's face just as well as he can see John's careful movements out of the corner of his eye. "I said he made an _idiot mistake_. Like getting himself caught and utterly failing to defend himself and his family. And it seems as though he's failed so spectacularly that the whole Moriarty name is as good as dross—"

The movements are almost too quick to follow. Enraged Jim moving the wand right up under Sherlock's chin, Sherlock's strong and defiant stare, and the movement of Jim's mouth as he forms the spell. And most especially, before Jim can even finish the first syllable of the killing curse, John Watson appearing from nowhere to tackle Jim to the floor.

Dust flies into the dark, close air when they crash to the floorboards, hard enough to rattle jaws and daze little Jimmy Moriarty. John's never hit anyone with his fists in his life, but he slams one punch into Jim's jaw hard enough to feel something of Jim's crunch. But even a scrawny boy like Jim is tough in a brawl, and he squirms under John and wrangles for control of his wand hand.

(Sherlock is scrambling somewhere behind them, looking for his wand, John is hardly aware of the movement.)

John slams Jim's wrist back against the floor, trying to get the wand out of his hand, gritting his teeth and pinning Jim's neck under his forearm. And Jim is shouting curses, colorful spells flying from the end of his wand and vanishing with no target every time John slams his hand down to the floor.

(Sherlock has his wand just in time to throw a Full Body Bind at Moran, who had just burst into the room, and he hits the floor almost comically.)

And finally Jim has wrestled control back into his off-hand, and he shoots a punch right at John's nose, and it breaks horribly. And with the distraction, the Slytherin is back on his feet and his wand is shaking when he raises it to Sherlock and—

John leaps at him from the ground, digging his claws into Jim's shirt and wrenching him away in time for the flash of green to go careening off into a far corner, and John gives a hoarse yell as he throws all of his strength into it and—

With the sharp movement, John trips backward over Moran's prostrate body by the door. He and Jim go tumbling out the door, briefly struggle on the dusty floor as they roll, and suddenly vanish over the lip of the staircase.

It takes a moment for it to sink into Sherlock's gut. A terrible, long moment where he listens for sound of movement from the floor below, listens for John's triumphant laugh or even a groan of pain. When nothing comes, Sherlock's insides go cold and he suddenly belts out: "_John?_"

He's down the stairs faster than he thought he could move.

Jim and John are tangled and motionless at the bottom of the stairs, and someone's bleeding. Sherlock hovers over the two of them, and his hands are shaking when he kneels and throws Jim's discarded wand far across the floor.

When Sherlock presses worried fingertips to John's face, the Badger buckles and grins painfully, but he doesn't open his eyes. "Ow," he mutters uselessly. "Think I broke something. Not my back," he interjects before Sherlock can worriedly ask. Sherlock takes the prompt to pull John to him. "Ankle. You think we can do something about this rubbish?" He nods at Jim's motionless form.

"I think you've killed him," Sherlock says placidly, not an ounce of regret in his voice.

"Pity," John breathes, letting his head sag into Sherlock's lap. "I bet the Dementors would've got a kick out of him."

Against all reason, Sherlock laughs. Kisses John's forehead, laughs, and helps him to stand. They find the nearest teacher (Hagrid, at the Boar's Head), and let him know about the whole situation. In what feels like an instant, they're surrounded by Aurors and everyone is asking them questions. Sherlock answers all of them and kindly asks everyone to keep their voices down, because John's head has lolled onto Sherlock's shoulder, dead asleep.

* * *

They arrest Moran a second time, and this time he makes it all the way to Azkaban.

They finish out the rest of the year, and John feels as though he spends most of it convincing the Hufflepuffs that Sherlock really isn't as bad as he'd said and he really is in love with him. It doesn't take as long as John thinks, because they remember Sherlock, and they remember the year that the two of them spent by the fire and talking without needing to speak. (Yes, they're slightly upset that John lied to them about the situation, but the team forgives them easily). They welcome Sherlock back to the table for breakfasts, back to their section for Quidditch, and most importantly, back to his chair by the fire.

John and Sherlock study for their N.E.W.T.s together in the Hufflepuff common room. Sherlock with the burns and cuts healing on his face and John limping on his bad ankle (Sherlock thinks it's mostly psychosomatic, and John tells him to shut up).

When Andy catches the snitch in their final match against Slytherin, the entire Hufflepuff section erupts in noise, and John nearly cries when he grabs everyone close to him and kisses more cheeks and foreheads than he can remember belonging to his team (he must have gone around a second time). He grabs Sherlock when he runs onto the pitch with the rest of the House, and John sweeps him up in a searing kiss that burns away the rest of the world, and there's nothing more important than the two of them.

The Prophet runs a story about the youngest Moriarty falling to his death in Hogsmeade, and John and Sherlock go completely unmentioned. John suspects Mycroft's involvement, and he wonders just how much he owes that man at the Ministry, and just how a man his age can get away with so much. He doesn't ask, because he's mostly afraid of the answer. But the outcome is the same: no one knows what happened in the Shrieking Shack, no one swarms the two with questions, and they only tell who they want (the Hufflepuffs, who will never tell a soul).

Lying in bed, John asks, "What're we gonna do when we get old?"

Sherlock shrugs at first. "If our escapades with Jim and Moran are anything to go by, I'd say we shouldn't have to worry about it."

"You'd better try dying on me, Sherlock Holmes," John murmurs, kissing Sherlock hard at the forehead. "I won't let you."

Sherlock smirks, and he kisses each of John's fingers thoughtfully. "I thought I might keep bees."

John laughs, and he has to quiet himself down when the nearest boy complains in his sleep. "You? Keeping bees? You'll blow them up in under a week, I guarantee. Fantastically."

"You're on, John Watson," Sherlock says quietly, grinning in the dark.

* * *

AN: YOU'RE NOT OUT OF THE WOODS YET. I am definitely doing an epilogue a la Rowling, so we aren't finished with this world just yet. That being said, this one IS shorter than the ones before it, so I feel very JK-ish at the moment (no ego here, just in words I swear!). But it was SO HARD to write, because I love these boys and making them hurt hurts me a bit. But it's all fine in the end, and let me tell you just how much FUN this series has been, and everyone has been so darn wonderful to me, and I can hardly believe a little idea bloomed into this enormous thing. Much thanks to Laurie R. King for the separation idea (go read the Mary Russell series, plzthx), to my amazing beta Lady Dan, and to you kind folks reading. Leave some love and, above all else, STAY AWESOME!


	8. Epilogue

**.epilogue.**

"Come on, John, we're losing him!"

John vaults full-speed over the felled owl cage that the criminal had thrown to the snowy street right after Sherlock. The grimy man gives a shout, throws a spell over his shoulder, and John counters with a backhanded shield charm (the spell bounces off, hits the hanging sign for Ollivander's, and it explodes spectacularly on contact). John shouts at the top of his lungs for everyone to get out of the way, and there are screams and a great jostling of bodies just as the man ducks sideways into Knockturn Alley.

Sherlock follows, and John follows him.

Spells fly, lighting the dark alley with color (one of Sherlock's stunning spells rebounds and knocks a raven from a sign post). John grabs Sherlock by the back of his long coat and tosses the both of them into a darker side-alley when another Blasting Curse sails their way (showering them with chips of brick and mortar when it hits above their heads).

John rebounds first, and with a cry of "_DEPULSO!"_ their assailant goes flying through the close air and strikes the wall of the nearest pawn shop. Knockturn Alley's finest have all suddenly and wisely cleared out of the streets, into the dodgy shops and crevices, and so there's no one to help the criminal when he hits the snowy ground with a crack.

The cornered man attempts to shakily lift himself from the ground or crawl away, but John is out in the open now, wand on him.

"_Incarcerous_," Sherlock says breathlessly when he approaches behind John, and ropes spring from the end of his wand to bind the grounded man's hands.

John tilts his head back, fighting for breath amidst the uncontrollable giggling that's suddenly seized him. Sherlock joins in hopelessly, leaning back against the nearest wall for support. John takes a seat on the incarcerated man's back and hangs his head between his knees as breath and laughter fight for dominance.

"You didn't even tell me what this bloke's done," John says, shaking his head. "Or his bloody name, even." That doesn't stop John from following him. It never has.

"Joe Harrison," Sherlock says between attempting to breathe. "Took a little something from our old friend Andrew West."

"West? Hell, that was years ago, Sherlock," John adds (and memories of running through Chelsea away from the sound of Weasley's Whiz-Bangs and giggling like fools in the tube station years ago cause another flood of laughter to take him). "He's Ministry now, right?"

"Right," Sherlock says, straightening his collar needlessly after their run. "Deals in foreign relations. This fellow got his hands on some rather sensitive information that we'd rather not leave the country, hence—" He waves his hand at Harrison and John on the ground. "Aurors should be after us presently." His posture speaks of impatience, but there's a crooked smile on his face that he saves for John and the Chase.

John looks up with a wide smile, chest heaving. "I've got it figured out. Today's your birthday."

And then Sherlock looks completely scandalized, shocked into wordless horror. In all the years they'd been together, Sherlock had never even let on that he _had _a birthday (as if he'd suddenly decided to crawl out of the ether twenty-seven years ago and coalesce into a human being).

"How could you possibly—" And then Sherlock's face frosts over in anger. "_Mycroft_."

John laughs loudly, breath fogging with every gasp.

Not a minute later, there are two cracks from somewhere near them, and the heads that had begun to peer out from the alleys and doorways disappear back into hiding. The two Aurors stride quickly over, and John's smile goes full-blown.

"Watson," Lestrade says with a gruff laugh. "Thought I'd find you two behind this."

"Business as usual." John stands, grabs both of Lestrade's hands in his for a warm shake.

"Still vigilante, then?" Lestrade shoves his hands deep into his pockets for warmth. "Ministry could use you two, y'know. You'd make a damn good Auror, Watson."

Sherlock's eyes narrow on the woman behind Lestrade, who meets the look with a frown. Sally Donovan leans down and picks the stunned Joe Harrison off the ground and grunts under the weight. "You two 've got no right to go around causing all this panic, you know," she cuts into the conversation. "Leave Auror work to Aurors."

"When the Aurors learn to do their job properly, I'll no longer need to do it for them," Sherlock says icily.

Sally hisses and frowns this time at John. "Once a Slytherin, always a Slytherin," she murmurs. "I read your book," she raises her voice at Sherlock boastfully. "Ridiculous. _The Magic of Deduction_?"

"You didn't read my book," Sherlock mutters dully.

"Looks like rubbish anyway," she shoots back.

"Science and magic have more in common that you'd like to acknowledge, and if you perhaps _practiced_ a bit of mental exercise, I wouldn't have to catch your traitors for you." He continues through her affronted expression. "If used in conjunction properly, magic and science can make strange but remarkable bedfellows."

"Yeah, well, the two of you would know all about that, wouldn't you?" It's meant to be a jab. John just laughs, especially when Sherlock's ears still go pink.

"If you ever decide to go off independent work," Lestrade says warmly once Donovan Apparates with Harrison in tow, "I'll put in a word for you with Potter."

"I like it here, thanks," John says, clapping Lestrade on the arm. "You should come by sometime, have a chat."

Sherlock frowns lightly, which only makes the grin on John's face expand exponentially.

"221b Baker Street," John adds, and then he turns and takes Sherlock's hand in his own, pulling him away to the sound of Lestrade Apparating off again.

* * *

Their landlady is a wonderful old woman named Mrs. Hudson, remarkably patient and unbelievably understanding. When Sherlock attempts to heat the tea with his wand at four in the morning and nearly blows a hole in the building, John's mostly concerned that she'll discover the fact that they're not the unassuming couple she thought them to be and are actually an unassuming couple of wizards. Instead, she gives them a broad wink and bustles off downstairs to call her great nephew to patch it all up. Later, she tells them that she's the only Squib in a family of wizards (over tea and biscuits in her sitting room), and as long as they don't try to blow up the flat again, she really doesn't mind.

When they bustle into the warm foyer from the icy January wind after the Joe Harrison incident, the post is waiting for them on the table by the stairs (Sherlock still doesn't understand Muggle post, but the occasional owl at the window doesn't attract as much attention as John had thought). John sifts through it (reading around Sherlock, who is trying to get John's jacket off while he reads) and he gives a little noise of recognition at the last.

"My mum," John says lightly, turning the envelope over in examination.

Sherlock peers over John's shoulder, kisses at his ear while he's close, and John swats him away with a smirk. "What does she want?"

"Says Mycroft sent her an owl about your birthday."

Sherlock gives a low growl, and John chuckles in reply, reaching around to scrub his fingertips fondly through the curls at the back of Sherlock's head.

"She's got you opera tickets," John says with growing awe as he pulls the gift from the envelope. "Bloody hell, me too."

Sherlock frowns.

"Oh, come _on_," John chides. "My mum got us _opera tickets_ for your birthday! _My_ mum, who hasn't even got herself a new house dress in years. You're writing her a thank you—No, we're going to see her this weekend and you're saying thanks in person."

Sherlock grumbles.

"Why don't you want anyone knowing when your birthday is?" John asks.

"Because it doesn't matter," Sherlock utters grayly. "What does my being pushed from my mother's loins on a Saturday have to do with anything? Exactly," he replies before John can get a word in. He's up the stairs to the flat in twos.

"Yeah, well," John calls up, following him, "you could say the same thing about Christmas, and you don't have a problem with Christmas."

They meet in the kitchen, and somehow the smaller man has the taller pinned up against the counter, eyes locking.

"So you're getting a birthday present, and you're not going to complain about it," John says very plainly (and very close).

"Hnn," Sherlock replies eloquently when John hits his knees.

* * *

"He just wants a look," John pleads, running after Sarah when she moves away.

"They're people, not experiments," Sarah reminds him, but her tone is even, and she hasn't stopped smiling since he walked in the door to her ward.

"He wants to help," John goes on, but then he realizes this probably isn't completely true. "Well, he wants to learn, and that's sort of helping. A bit. I mean, the more he knows, the better he can solve cases, right?"

"He's not even an Auror," Sarah reminds him.

"Yeah, well, the Aurors come to him for help, don't they? Just give us five minutes with them."

She stops, and even though she's very glad to see him, there's pinched concern between her brows. "What is five minutes in the Janus Thickey Ward going to do for anyone?"

John doesn't back down, but he's calm. "He's studying Memory Charms. The more he knows about the long-term damage—"

"I can't, John," she replies softly. "He can't poke and prod people like they're not _human_. Not today." She sighs heavily, then a sad smile returns to her face. "I'm really glad you came to see me. Both of you. Look, if you come back next week, I might be able to arrange... I don't know, an interview with someone. But no experiments."

"No experiments," John echoes, grinning. He leaves a kiss at Sarah's cheek. "You're brilliant, thank you. Lovely to see you again."

He's off and running back down the hall, back to Sherlock, who kisses John all over his face and hair and ears in thanks.

* * *

There's a loud thump and a boom from downstairs, and John jolts awake (visions of exploding Quidditch hoops fading from behind his eyelids). He hops into his pants before he rushes downstairs, disheveled and half-asleep, but with his wand raised and ready for a fight.

And he dissolves into gales of laughter at the look on Sherlock's face, the circle burned into Mrs. Hudson's carpet, and the litter of dead bees all over the sitting room.  


* * *

AN: AND THAT'S THE END! Hope no one was expecting anything wonderful from the epilogue, it's just a neat little coda. I wanna tell everyone HOW AMAZING YOU ALL ARE FOR BEING SO AWESOME TO ME FOR THE DURATION OF THIS FIC, and I love every single one of you reading this. I need to you to know that! I really loved writing all of this, and y'all made it that much more fun for me. I don't know if I'll be coming back to this verse or not, time will tell (for those who don't know, I am currently researching another BBCSherlock AU, and I'll give you this clue: jazz). Thanks again, so so much; leave us some love and def. don't forget to STAY AWESOME!


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